


Burn Your Bridges

by Ilandere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Divorce, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6653926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilandere/pseuds/Ilandere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger hasn't been to work at the Ministry for two weeks. She hasn't answered any owls or phone calls. She's been lying in bed most of the time, suffering from a severe depressive episode that she doesn't think has any cause. She's just that broken.<br/>Harry has to break in to begin taking care of her the way a best friend should. He knows what's best for her - a therapist specializing in those affected by the Second Wizarding War. He just hopes she'll open up to one of her worst school bullies so he can actually help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody. I haven’t written fanfiction in about five years. Posting this is stressing me out, but makes me feel really good. This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, which is bizarre because that was my first fandom I read.  
> A lot of Hermione’s thoughts and feelings have been inspired by and based after my own experiences. Depression is a terrible illness that can affect anybody. I hope to validate the feelings of those who suffer from depression and also educate those who don’t.  
> Yes, this will eventually be Dramione, but Hermione’s world needs to be established first. Other ships include Ginny/Harry, past Ron/Hermione, and past Astoria/Draco.

Chapter 1

 

I wish I knew how to keep friends my whole life. It would be a lot simpler. Or better yet, why can’t we have a beacon over people’s heads—this will be your lifelong best friend, your brother; this one is pretty nice for a while but will dump you as soon as she gets a boyfriend; this one is just going to use you; this one you will think is your friend, but in reality will make you hate your very existence until you leave her; this one you’re eventually going to date but a nasty breakup will destroy your old friendship.

Yeah, that would make life a lot simpler.

Instead, I wind up creating more problems for myself because I don’t know when to close my mouth and walk away and when to shake a person’s outstretched hand.

And this causes me to sit alone in my flat eating ice cream out of the carton while watching reality television in the middle of the afternoon, still in my hole-riddled pajamas I could never bother to get rid of.

All the curtains are drawn shut so the only way I know the time is by the digital clock on my DVD player below my TV blinking 2:27 pm. I should be at work, but I just don’t feel like it. I’m surprised I made it out of bed today, even. It’s a new development.

My office has sent numerous owls, each more urgent than the last. I actually answered yesterday’s— _I’m sorry, I’m currently incredibly ill and unable to make it to work. I should be back as quickly as I can._

They know me; they know I love to work and Magical Law is my passion. But right now, it’s hard to find passion for anything, let alone the motivation to cook decent food. I thought of making a microwave pastry earlier but that took more effort than the ice cream with less of a numbing result. Numb is nice. It matches my mind.

My intercom buzzes, signaling somebody is at the apartment complex entrance for me. I don’t want to get it. I don’t want to stand up.

It buzzes again.

I sit in my comfy chair in front of the TV and wait the person out. They’ll go away eventually. Everybody does.

My cell phone rings on the coffee table. I’m surprised it has any battery left since I keep forgetting about it. I lean forward just enough to make out the picture on the screen. Nope.

Again, the buzzer. And again, the phone. Go away, I don’t want to talk to anybody right now.

A few minutes pass and suddenly there’s a knock on my door. It shocks me and sends me into a mild panic. Logically, I know that it would eventually happen—somebody recognized him let him in at the front entrance.

“Hermione!” the all-too-familiar voice calls through the door. “I know you’re in there! Please let me in,” he ends up pleading.

I don’t answer.

A whispered “ _Alohamora_ ” comes from the other side and I hear the clicks of my locks undoing themselves. I should have put a spell on them to stop that, but I couldn’t be bothered. After all, if somebody broke in, let them. I don’t have anything of value. I’m nothing of value even.

“Hermione,” he breathes out from behind me, relief flooding his voice. A few lights are turned on, blinding me momentarily. “Oh, Hermione.”

Warm arms wrap around me from the side, but I can’t stop staring at the screen in front of me. I can’t feel my fingers anymore from holding the damn ice cream and I honestly couldn’t care less. But then he pulls the carton and spoon from my hands so he can kneel down properly in front of me, blocking the TV.

“Hermione,” he repeats. “Look at me.”

I finally look in his eyes, which are watering and on the verge of tears. Mine are as blank as possible. I’m empty and I don’t feel anything—don’t want to feel anything. Or maybe I do but I’m too gone to care anymore.

He touches my face and pushes back some of my hair, which I haven’t brushed in well over a week and it shows. I bet if I tried to now, even the most powerful potion wouldn’t be able to tame it.

“Let’s get you dressed, okay? A shower should make you feel better.” He smiles gently as he stands, but I just shake my head no in response. Don’t make me move. “Come on,” he pleads, pulling at my hands to help me up. “Ginny always makes me shower when everything starts to overwhelm me again. Being clean _helps_ , Hermione, I promise.”

I wouldn’t put it past Ginny Weasley be able to force the great Harry Potter into the shower at wand-point just so he would stop with his angst. He always did have a flair for the dramatics.

I still won’t move. What’s the point? Showering might help him, but I’m not dirty. Not on the outside, just…inside my head.

Harry sighs and forces my legs down from my chest so he can grab around my waist. He heaves me over his shoulder and I stray thought in my head wonders why he wouldn’t just use magic, like he did on the door, but this is Harry and he doesn’t think before action.

He carries me to my bedroom and drops me on the bed. I stay sitting up, but otherwise don’t move as he walks over to my closet and pulls out a random shirt and skirt. He then thinks a moment and puts the skirt back before fishing jeans out of one of my dresser drawers. How does he know where all my stuff is? Oh, right, he helped me move and knows how particular I am with my clothes. So he also knows where to grab a bra, a pair of underwear—surprisingly the comfy granny ones—and socks.

He lays the clothes next to me on the bed. “Do I have your approval?” he asks. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t want a skirt if you haven’t, um…shaved in a while.” I like skirts more than pants, he knows. Ginny has trained him well; I give her that. No, I haven’t shaved my legs in over a month. There hasn’t been a need. I sway slightly in my perch on the edge of the bed, the best answer I can give him.

His shoulders drop, but he doesn’t press the issue. He helps me up again, and this time I stand with his efforts. The carpet against my bare feet feels nice. I want to lie down on it. I start to collapse, since that seems like such a good, effortless idea. Showering takes time and effort and energy, none of which I have.

“No, no, no you don’t,” Harry says as he catches me and pulls me back up. He all but carries me to the ensuite and plops me down on the sink counter. “Do I need to undress you and help you shower, too? I will if you make me.”

I shake my head again. No, despite how much I don’t want to put in the effort to shower and just honestly don’t feel like it, it would be embarrassing to have my best friend help me shower because I’m that helpless.

“Okay. I’ll wait right outside, alright? Come out when you’re done, but take your time. Oh! And this is from Ginny,” he adds while fishing around in his cloak pockets. He pulls out a small metal tin. “It’s some kind of calming body wash or something, she said. She used it during her, um…bout with post-partem.”

Ginny had post-partem depression? I didn’t know that. She never…Why did she never tell me? I guess I really wasn’t that close to her, was I? I’m that horrible of a friend. That makes sense.

Harry ducked to look at my eyes again. “Just…just so you know, she didn’t even tell _me_ until she was recovering.”

Why does Harry always know what to say?

He leaves and I actually strip myself for the first time in days. I refuse to look in the mirror because I know I won’t like what I see. As soon as I step under the spray of the shower, my body tenses before slowly succumbing to the heat and the massage of the water against my skin. I didn’t realize that it would be this relaxing to shower—I never do. Usually, I have a system and a routine that forces me to methodically wash my body and hair, brush my hair so many times after I condition, and only use so much time so I can continue with my morning routine.

Instead, I stand under the water for minutes on end, just letting my body feel and my mind go blank in a soothing way that I haven’t experienced in too long. I can actually feel the dirt and sweat washing off with the soap and shampoo, though I can’t get the conditioner to do shit for my hair. What am I going to do? I can’t detangle it and I have no idea where my wand is or if there’s a spell powerful enough to—who am I kidding? Who cares about my hair?

Maybe it would be best to just get rid of it.

My eyes glance towards my razor, but I don’t want to shave my head myself if I have no idea how. Plus, that’s just so much effort. There’s too much of it to bother. I’ll shear it off once Harry leaves.

Finally, I grab the tin from Ginny. Inside, a lime-green paste sits partially used. I shrug and dip my fingers inside. It has a pleasant aroma—mint, lavender, and…is that cinnamon? It reminds me of the Burrow and a smile ghosts over my lips at the memories. When I rub it on my body, my skin tingles until my lips part.

A little bit goes a long way and soon I’ve basically covered myself in the paste. Something in my head feels like it’s firing, rusty cogs moving in a not-so-unpleasant way. My vision seems to grow lighter, if that’s even possible, and I stare into nothingness while memories of the Burrow flood me.

I can remember dinners surrounded by the Weasley family and Harry, Remus and Tonks, even other order members. I remember the inside of Hagrid’s hut, the fire burning and large mugs of homemade hot chocolate on the table where the four of us sit, Fang drooling in Harry’s lap. My dad reading bedtime stories to me when I’m little, before I even knew magic was as real as the stories led me to believe.

At the thought of my dad, I collapse onto the shower floor, wrapping my arms around myself. My skin is no longer tingling, but my eyes are. Tears slip down freely with my sobs, melting into the water from above as if they didn’t exist at all.

After a while, I’ve no idea how long, my body feels empty. I have no more tears left, all of them released and escaped down the drain. Once I muster the energy to stand, I stumble slightly, but catch myself on the wall.

I should get out.

I can’t even remember what I was crying about.

I dry off and wrap the towel around myself, another to hide my hair. I knock lightly on the door and open it a smidge. “Harry,” I call softly. “Can you hand me my clothes?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” he replies and rushes to the door to slip the clothes through the crack I leave for them.

I go through the motions of dressing and brushing my teeth and even taking one of my supplement pills I forgot to take for…well, judging by how many are left in the bottle, at least two weeks. That certainly wasn’t helping me in any way.

Finally, I step out of the steaming bathroom, ready to face Harry. He quickly stands and strides towards me, a gentle smile beneath his worried eyes. “How do you feel? Better?” he asks.

I nod, surprised. Yes, I do feel better, but I don’t know if it was the shower or that cream from Ginny that helped the most. Maybe both. I did also release a lot of pent of sadness.

“Good, alright. I’ve packed your purse, found your wand—why was it in your cereal cabinet? —and called to make sure everything’s ready. So, let’s get going,” he said in a rush, grabbing my hand.

“Wait, what? Where?” I don’t allow myself to be pulled any further. I want answers. And I don’t want to leave my flat.

Harry’s eyes bug out. “Oh, whoops, forgot to mention. Ginny got you a hair appointment and I scheduled a massage for after that. You’re going to get pampered today and you can’t say ‘no.’” He pulls at my hand again. “Ron suggested we stop at the bookstore on the way home, so if you’re up to that, we’ll go afterwards, okay?”

I haven’t read a book in too long. I can’t concentrate on the information on the page or the characters and their story. None of it has interested me lately. But maybe a new book would help. I don’t want to listen to Ron’s advice out of anybody’s but he does still know me too well, despite everything that has happened between us. Why couldn’t he just forget my existence, huh? I’ve been trying and it’s been working more or less.

* * *

“You can’t be serious?”

“But, Hermione, your hair is beautiful, why would you want to—”

“I said all of it. I want it gone. It’ll grow back.” I refuse to look away from the reflection of my determined eyes in the mirror. If Ginny was here, I would not be able to even suggest such a thing. She loves my hair for some bizarre reason. Its bushiness is just another reason I stand out as an outsider, ugly, just like my old buck teeth I was bullied for—at least those were fixed thanks to Madame Pomfrey, not that she knew she was an accomplice.

The stylist shakes her head, but realizes I won’t budge. The electric razor powers on, the buzzing filling this section of the salon.

~~~BREAK~~~

Harry is waiting for me in the hall outside the masseuse’s room, a large grin plastered on his face. My body feels like gelatin but overall, I’m feeling alright.

Maybe I did need this day.

“Bookstore time?” Harry asks as he pushes himself off the wall.

I nod timidly. I still don’t know if I can go.

Harry keeps hold of my hand as we walk down the streets of Muggle London. He knows better than to bring me to Diagon Alley at the moment. I don’t want to see people I know. I don’t want them to see me. I fit in better with the Muggles anyway. I’m just a Mudblood after all.

I peek through the window of the bookstore we stop in front of. It looks cozy, made for book lovers specifically. Warm lighting hangs from the ceiling and illuminates piles and shelves of books. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about stepping inside there and living between the shelves for several hours.

But I’m not normal. Not at all. And I don’t deserve to go into that beautiful haven.

“I want to go home, Harry,” I murmur, staring at my shoes.

Harry just sighs quietly and turns around to head back the way we came.

* * *

After he helps me into a clean set of pajamas and leaves me on my bed, Harry finds all my dirty clothes. They would normally be all in the hamper in my bathroom, but…I couldn’t be bothered lately. There was no point. What if I wanted to wear them again or something? And it is just too so much effort, anyway…

He puts them all in a basket, asks where I keep the detergent, and heads out to the laundry room down the hall of the building.

Why is he doing all this for me? I haven’t been that great of a friend to him lately. It can’t just be because he feels guilty for me helping him so much at Hogwarts, can it? That’s probably why he’s taking care of me so much right now—because I did everything for him in school. It’s to pay me back for everything, or else he’d feel too guilty.

He’d deny it if I broached the subject, so I keep quiet when he comes back to my room eventually with all my laundry folded or ready to hang.

“I cleaned up your living room and kitchen and boiled some pasta. There’s some tomato sauce you can heat up to go with the pasta for dinner, okay?”

I can’t answer. I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry. My eating earlier was because it was an action that felt normal and calming.

Harry finishes up and sits down on the side of my bed. His hand on my arm is warm and affectionate. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Can you be ready to go out around one-thirty?”

“No,” I respond blankly. “Why?”

“You have one more appointment and I think you’ll appreciate it the most. It’s a surprise until we get there, though.” He smiles and pats me lightly. “Please eat dinner soon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

An hour later or so, my stomach rumbles and I think about dinner. But as soon as I get out of bed, I stand staring at my closed bedroom door for several moments. No.

I go back to bed and hope Harry forgets about me tomorrow, like he should have done long ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who gave kudos, favorited, followed, subscribed, reviewed, and commented!
> 
> This chapter, we finally get to see the mysterious therapist…

Chapter 2

My alarm goes off the next morning at 6:30, just like every single morning. And just like every single morning for the past two weeks, I ignore it for as long as I can handle before finally reaching over and shutting the annoying beeping off.

Should I go to work? I should go to work. I’ve missed so much. Do they even need me? They kept owling me, but maybe it was just protocol because I hadn’t responded and they needed to make sure I wasn’t dead. There _had_ been in increase in suicide in the past seven years since the War ended, but I think that has gone down more recently.

In any case, if I was needed back at work, they’d tell me. They’re probably fine without me. And I really just don’t feel like going.

Something nags me in the back of my mind. I have something else to do today. Something important. What day is it? If I knew the date, I’d know what was scheduled for today. But I haven’t kept track of the dates recently.

My purse is lying on my nightstand, though I don’t remember putting it there. Ever. My phone is inside, but, of course, it’s dead. I plug it in and wait until it starts up again.

_March 25_

No, nothing important that I can remember. And I don’t know where my planner is…or the last time I wrote in it.

I want to go back to sleep. Sleep is always nice. It’s like…death without a commitment. I can wake up anytime and go back to normal. I just…haven’t gone back to normal yet. This is probably my new normal anyway.

Oh, but now my stomach is hurting. Maybe I should eat something before going back to sleep. Yeah, if I can just muster up enough energy to get to the kitchen.

It only takes about ten minutes of sitting on the edge of my bed until I just tell myself to get up and go. Sometimes, ordering myself around like I would a subordinate helps me disassociate enough to get going.

There’s a pot on my stove with old pasta and a jar of tomato sauce sitting next to it.

Finally, the spark in my mind goes off. Harry was here yesterday. He made me dinner. I had forgotten what day that had been, maybe weeks ago, who knows? But that was yesterday and today I need to leave with him at 1:30 in the afternoon. It’s almost seven in the morning and here I am spooning air-dried cold pasta into a bowl, dumping some tomato sauce on top, and shoving it into the microwave. It’s already cooked, so that means it’s less effort, right?

I sit down in a chair at my kitchen table while I wait, hands resting in my lap. My eyes watch the numbers tick down on the microwave, but nothing registers until the loud beeps. I can’t taste the pasta, but the repeated movement of bringing my fork to my mouth is reassuring.

After dropping my dishes in the sink, I make my way to the living room. Harry said he cleaned up and it shows. All the curtains have been opened and fresh sunlight streams through to illuminate an orderly room, all books on their proper shelves—alphabetized by subject and author, of course. All the food and candy wrappers are gone, and even the few sweaters and blankets I’d dragged around are either cleaned and in my room, the hall closet, or draped over the back of the couch.

I pull one of those blankets by its corner, dragging it to the armchair. The armchair I always sit in when reading or watching television recently. It’s a comfort to me, a part of my life that is constant. I curl up now in the blanket on my chair.

A thought flitters around that I should get dressed and ready to go for Harry and wherever he may be taking me, but it quickly dies as I succumb to the protection of sleep again.

I jolt awake to the sound of the front door opening. Harry must have taken a spare key. He sighs in frustration when he catches sight of me, still in my pajamas at…a glance at the clock tells me it’s one in the afternoon. Alright, so he came at a good time and can’t be as disappointed in me as he could have been.

“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” he says while he gestures for me to follow him to my room. I stare after him a moment, my body not wanting to move.

“Where are we going?” I finally call after him as I stand. I keep the blanket wrapped around me like an extra layer of security. “How should I dress?”

He shrugs while he searches through my closet. “Just something comfortable that um…makes you feel comfy?” he finishes weakly. And that is why I always rewrote his essays for him. He ends up gathering all my clothes for me and I take them to the bathroom to change.

I take my first look in the mirror since the day before. It shocks me. There’s no hair! Nothing, just a buzz cut where my mountains of hair used to billow out. That’s one time-consuming task to tick off my morning routine. I continue to feel the ghost of my hair as I change, thinking I need to pull it out of my shirt collar or hold it back to spit out my toothpaste. It’s definitely an unnerving sensation.

Harry is waiting on my bed when I leave the bathroom, changed and freshened up as much as I felt was necessary. The clothes he picked out for me aren’t very nice, so I know he’s not taking me anywhere very proper. But what could be left after yesterday?

I can’t help but feel disappointed that I can’t read my best friend as easily as I used to. I should be able to figure out where we’re going, but I just follow as he leads me out of my apartment and to the waiting car.

Out of any of us in our group, Harry was the first and only to learn to drive after Hogwarts. My parents had suggested I learn over the summers between school years, but…I don’t want to think about them right now.

After hearing stories about Ron driving his father’s flying car, I can confidently say that Harry is a capable driver. Few of the magical community use cars very often, since public transport and apparation is a thing, but I appreciate that he doesn’t make me get in a cramped bus, or worse—let him apparate us, his one advanced skill he never achieved any proficiency in.

I stare out the passenger window as the scenery of outer London roles by. I don’t try to pay attention to where the car travels. What’s the point? I’m going no matter what, supposedly.

A speck of dirt on the window catches my eye and I stare at it, ignoring any conversation Harry tries to start, until we’re lumbering into a poorly-paved parking lot. Few cars sit in this seemingly-abandoned lot, though there is plenty of hustle and bustle in and out of…

St. Mungo’s. Harry took me to St. Mungo’s.

If he is worried about me getting enough nutrition, a Muggle hospital and an IV would have been just fine. Not that I wouldn’t trick the Muggles into letting me go as soon as Harry leaves me.

Harry opens his door, but notices I won’t budge. “Come on, it’s not what you think. I promise, this will help.”

I’m still frozen. Stop trying to help; I can deal with my own problems myself. This isn’t your business anymore.

He gets out and goes around to my door, pulling me out by my hands again. He then grabs my purse and hands it to me before locking up the car and leading the way to the window on the side of the building.

I told myself after the War that I wouldn’t step foot in this hospital again. I would take care of whatever injuries I shouldn’t even procure and none of my friends would get sick or hurt ever again either.

Inside, it smells just the same—moldy, like the tainted magic everywhere, and yet lemony from the cleaning potions. It burns my nose and I breathe through my mouth, though that just dries out my throat.

I start to go towards the reception desk, but Harry pulls me away towards the elevators past the receptionists. Once inside the creaking elevator, Harry holds onto my hand. It’s only then that I realize my other hand is at my mouth. When I was younger, I chewed my nails as a nervous habit, but forced myself to quit. I guess it’s still a part of my mind when I regress enough and feel unsafe enough.

We travel all the way to the fifth and highest floor of St. Mungo’s, which I always thought was just where the tea room and gift shop are located. Then something alights in my mind, a memory of a _Daily Prophet_ article about the new wing of St. Mungo’s in an effort to help those affected by the Second Wizarding War.

Harry leads me straight where I realize we’re going, a sharp left out of the elevator and down a long hallway to a new reception area. Above the front desk hangs a large sign— _Malfoy-Greengrass Therapy Wing_.

Ah, yes, that’s why they were deigned an article. Two rich pure-blood families funded the wing as a way to announce the engagement between their youngest heirs. They were trying to make up for their involvement in the War, but it wasn’t enough, in my opinion. No amount of money will make up for the atrocities they and their families afflicted on the world.

I refuse to step any further. “No,” I hiss, pulling my hand back.

“Hermione,” Harry whispers dangerously. “Therapy is completely fine. There’s nothing wrong with it. Listen, I went to therapy for years and I still come back when things get bad again. It’s perfectly normal and nobody will judge you for it, me especially.”

I shake my head again. While I don’t agree and think that talking about feelings can’t just magically make them go away like using a memory charm. I’d rather use magic than play pretend with therapy. But that’s beside the point. Harry _had_ been right about the shower, and having the haircut made me feel lighter—though that might just be a completely physical change of having no hair for the first time since I was born.

My eyes travel to the sign above the desk again. Harry follows my line of sight and groans. “I’m not even going to argue on behalf of the Malfoys and Greengrasses. Just come on.” He pulls me forcibly towards the reception desk.

The witch sitting behind the desk looks up with a friendly smile. “Afternoon, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid you’re not on the schedule today, but I might be able to fit you in if you can come back—”

“Oh, no,” Harry interrupts. He wasn’t kidding about going here, then, just to convince me. Who knows how much somebody will lie to manipulate, after all? He’d used psychology on Ron before and probably wouldn’t hesitate with me in such a…state. “I’m just taking my friend today. Hermione Granger, a two o’clock appointment.”

The witch looks down at her multiple rolls of parchment until she apparently finds my name. She writes something down, then grabs a clipboard with a parchment form on it. She hands Harry a quill and smiles again. “Once you fill out the form, please bring it back and I’ll let the Therapy Healer know you’re ready, Ms. Granger.”

I head straight to one of the seats in the waiting area. Of course, I would have to fill out a form before doing anything. And of course I have to sit staring at a sign with that dreaded name on it. Who tortured me for years. Who called me a Mudblood and made sure I was miserable. Who made me hate myself. And he should expect that I or any of his other targets would forgive him just because he threw money at a hospital wing? Life doesn’t work that way.

“Hermione,” Harry mutters after a moment. “I need you to answer some questions. They’re, um…personal.” I glance over as he hands the parchment over, my name and general information already filled out in his scrawled hand.

I need to fill out a questionnaire. Great. And to think I used to love taking tests. But this isn’t regurgitating information. This is “personal.”

_Have you had depressing thoughts in the last six months?_

Define depressing.

_Have you thought about suicide in the last six months?_

No, that’s the coward’s way to go. I’d rather be killed than kill myself. And thinking about deadly scenarios to bring about death not by my own hand doesn’t count, right?

_Have you self-harmed? (e.g. cutting, picking or clawing at skin, restricting food or water intake, etc.)_

I taste blood. A quick glance at my thumb I forgot I had been chewing on shows I broke through the skin and tore up the nail a bit. I swear aloud and fish for my wand in my purse. A quick spell and I’m all healed up, though my nail still has a line through it where it had been torn.

No, I do not self-harm. That was unintentional. And the raised, red claw-marks down my arms and upper legs were me unconsciously needing to release pent up emotion a few days ago…and a few days before that…

The questions keep going on until I’m ready to snap the quill in pieces from my tight grip on it. Finally, I can throw it towards Harry, whose Seeker-quick reflexes manage to catch the clipboard. The feather quill, though, sails to the floor, where a large ink blot now covers a small circle on the clean tile. I stare at the drop of dirty black ink shining in the artificial hospital light (when did they get electricity?) while Harry drops the clipboard off at the front desk again.

He stays chatting with the witch, whose nervous fingers travel to her hair. She’s flirting, and with a married man. How despicable.

A few minutes later, another witch comes from the back area. “Ms. Granger?” she calls, looking around for me. I look up and stare at her. Realizing that, even though she can’t recognize me, I’m Hermione Granger, she forces a smile and says, “Your Therapy Healer is ready to see you. Please follow me.”

I heave myself up, not ready for this. But I can’t disappoint Harry again. He keeps doing all of this for me, and even if it is out of debt or guilt, he’s still trying.

“I’ll be right here when you come back. It’s only an hour—you can do it.” Harry gives me an encouraging hug and squeezes my arm before he lets go. He goes back to innocently talking with the receptionist and I realize he just wants to chat and is completely oblivious to the girl flitting with him. Of course, typical cluelessness.

The assistant leads me into the back hallway through a set of double doors. Everything is like the waiting room—clean and bright. Much cleaner and newer than the rest of St. Mungo’s. There are paintings lining the hallway, showing different landscapes of Europe and some that must be North America. They’re probably supposed to have a calming effect. They just annoy me.

I’m surprised I’ve yet to see a portrait of Malfoy and his wife glaring haughtily at those who dare think that they should ask for help with their mental health.

“Right through this door, ma’am,” the assistant says as she stops suddenly.

The name by the door number doesn’t register until I step inside the room, arms held around me and gripping my cardigan protectively. I don’t like new experiences I haven’t prepared for. And new experiences with such a surprise can outright destroy me.

Sitting in a large, black office chair in a mostly neutral-beige room sits one of my worst nightmares.

“Ah, Ms. Granger. I’m glad to see Potter was able to convince you to come,” Malfoy greets in his usual drawl that I haven’t heard in nearly seven years. “Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

He gestures to a worn leather couch with pillows piled high on one side, a hand-knit blanket hanging over the back.

No. I shake my head and start to back out of the room. The assistant is still waiting behind me and is able to push me into the room enough for Malfoy to flick his wand to shut the door. I’m trapped. I’m trapped with the enemy.

He’s yet to make a comment about how this new look suits me, or that it was about time I came to talk about how fucked up I am in the head. But I know it’s coming. I’m just waiting for the insults as I stand with my back pressed against the door. I’m waiting for the pain to be shoved straight back into my face.

“Alright,” he says, bowing his head in humorous defeat. “If you wish to stand, that’s fine. Whatever makes you most at ease.”

Malfoy crosses his legs, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. “Why don’t we start with why you think you’re here.”

I remain silent. Instead, I continue to stare straight into his icy eyes while letting my fingers travel into my purse in search of my wand.

“Obviously, your friends have been worried about you,” he tries again.

My hand finds purchase and I drop my purse to the ground as I shove my wand in Malfoy’s greasy face.

“Let. Me. Go,” I hiss.

Malfoy closes his eyes as if trying to fight back anger. “Wands are not allowed out during therapy unless I specifically ask for you to show me something that requires magic. Please put your wand away and sit down, Ms. Granger.”

“Oh, stop calling me that. We both know you’d rather spit out Mudblood than show me any respect, you disgusting worm.” I refuse to lower my wand arm, but wait for a response before I hex him.

His eyes narrow, but he refuses to stand and rise to my bait. “I’ll have you know that the majority of the studying I did on the subject of therapy and mental health was done at Muggle universities. It’s a fairly new field in the Wizarding World in Britain and I am one of the pioneers of the study and also a fairly competent personal Therapy Healer if I do say so myself. I do not use the phrase Mudblood anymore.”

“Your name is on that sign out front. You paid your way to this position so you can mock people like me.”

“I paid my way to this position so it can _exist_ , Granger. Without me and my fellow Therapy Healers, there would be a lot more insane and dead witches and wizards in this world. Without me, your precious Potter would be a sniveling mess who—Well, I’m not at liberty to share any of that with you, confidentiality and all.” He smirks and finally stands.

So, Harry went to see _Malfoy_ of all people to help him?

He takes a step forward and I back up a step, ramming into the doorknob.

“You and your friend react very similarly, I’ll give you that, though at least you haven’t thrown any curses yet. I appreciate it. Now I’m going to ask you again to please put your wand away.”

“No,” I growl, shaking my head and feeling too light when my hair doesn’t whip my face.

“This is a safe environment, this wing, and especially this room.” He takes another step forward, hands raised in surrender.

I waggle my wand at him and order, “Get back.”

“Or what?” There’s the slimy tone I remember from school. “You’ll hex me in my own office, where I personally hired and befriended the majority of the staff and the entire medical wizarding community is downstairs? Think it through, Granger, I know you have more than enough brain capacity. You’re the logical one of the Golden Trio, are you not? Don’t let your emotions cloud over your judgment.”

He needs to stop making sense. He needs to be exactly like he was at school, as a Death Eater, as a horrible prick who can’t help but insult everybody he feels is inferior to his disgusting, rich, pureblood, traits.

Tears start to cloud over my eyes before I can help it. I won’t let them fall, but everything around me becomes a blurry mess. No, this is not the time. I haven’t cried in weeks and now lately I can’t stop.

“Please,” Malfoy basically pleads. It’s both shocking and distasteful. “Put your wand down and sit.”

I shake my head again, but I can’t get the tears to go away. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere but alone in my flat in my armchair, wrapped in a blanket Mrs. Weasley made for me and hugging my old stuffed bunny that I can’t seem to find lately.

Malfoy steps forward again and is able to slip my wand from my hand. I thought I had a tighter grip, but everything I think lately has been wrong, so who knows? He places the wand delicately back into my purse and puts the purse on the end table on the far side of the couch. He then guides me to sit on the couch and I collapse into the deep cushions. He won’t stop staring straight into my eyes, his own very determined but not upset or disgusted.

My arms go to clutch at my cardigan again and Malfoy takes it as a sign to grab the pillow at the top of the pile and place it in my lap. He then sits back in his chair and gets comfortable again.

“Let’s start again. I’m Therapy Healer Malfoy, a very different person from who you knew growing up at Hogwarts and I would like to keep it that way. To my knowledge, you are not the Hermione Granger I went to school with, either, and I would like to get to know you professionally as your therapist.”

I can’t help but scoff. He wants to start over, fine. But I will never forget who he is. He is a bully, a Death Eater, and a grade-A prick.

“It’s hard to forget the Malfoy ferret who is one of the reasons I’m here in the first place,” I spit at him.

“First of all, I didn’t say forget. I said separate the two. Secondly, thank you for opening up. I see the bullying the schoolboy Draco did years ago still affects you. Why don’t we talk about that?”

“No.”

Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is therapy, Ms. Granger. It requires you to discuss the things that are hard to talk about in normal conversation and approach those that you cannot reveal even to yourself. The purpose of therapy is to find the right paths that allow you to heal. According to your friends, you are currently in a state of depression that has caused you to miss work for two weeks and, as I can noticeably see, not eat properly and shave off your hair. You also barely put in any effort to escape my ‘evil clutches’ as soon as you saw me. You need me. And I am here to help. This is my job.”

I shut my mouth and pinch my lips together in frustration. My fingers grip at the pillow I hold close to my chest. It’s a disgusting emerald green, but it’s soft and comforting, which makes it that much worse for me.

“I want to go home,” I finally mutter. Malfoy just stares a moment.

“You can’t for another forty-five minutes, so you might as well talk.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “Fine, let’s stay away from uncomfortable topics for today. Just let me get to know you as a patient. What’s your current job?”

He’s actually trying and part of me wants to slap him. The freaking ferret.

After a pause, I look away and answer, “I work at the Ministry, Magical Law. I like working with oppressed magical creatures and making sure everybody has equal and fair rights. Something _you_ wouldn’t understand.”

“Nothing in this office is about me, Granger. This session is about you. Please continue. What has been your latest project?”

I stay silent for a while again. “Fine,” I breathe out. “I’m working with the werewolf packs to get them more opportunities for jobs and equal pay without being discriminated against. It’s hard to find employers willing to give them jobs until I finish with the new bill. And then there’s getting it through the Wizengamot, which is still full of old men who have no care for people not like them. And they rarely take any bills by women seriously, of course.”

I haven’t talked this much in a while. My throat feels raw, but it still feels…right. I miss talking. It’s just so useless when home alone.

“Interesting,” Malfoy compliments. “Please go on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please don't forget to leave a comment with any questions or comments you have!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. One word: finals.

Chapter 3

“I mean, how else am I supposed to even talk to them if they hide away so much down there?” I continue to complain about a Department of Mysteries group that might have information I could use for my case.

“Ms. Granger,” Malfoy tries to interrupt, but I’m on a roll and haven’t really stopped talking in at least half an hour.

“And they won’t even let me follow them even though I can keep a secret I just need—”

“Granger!” he gets through.

I stop, surprised he’s still there. Have I really been…talking all this time with _Malfoy_ of all people?

He lets out a relieved sigh. “I see at least that hasn’t changed since school. However, I’m loathe to say our session is over for today. Now, Potter has already set up your next few sessions—twice a week for the next month or however long until we can get you back into mental shape enough to go back to work and take care of yourself completely.”

“Oh.” I thought this was a one-time-thing. Does Harry really expect me to continue to see one of my worst enemies every week? Wait, twice a week?! No, that’s not possible. And the _cost!_

“Next time,” he continues, “I would like to focus more on current events and what has transpired with you at home, so we can start to get to the heart of your…issues. Obviously, you do enjoy your work, as you spent the better part of your session discussing it, which I find rather positive in your future recovery. Going back to something you actually enjoy—a passion—can be very fulfilling and a drive towards recovery. I will see you Thursday; please take care of yourself until then.” Malfoy shoos me with his hand.

Excuse me? I’m just…getting kicked out? No formality, just time is up and out I go? The prick never actually grew up. And I will prove it. Next time.

I snatch up my purse and huff out of the small room, feeling odd to not have my hair fly after me. The harsh white walls and bright lights of the hallway blind me momentarily, but I quickly gain my senses again and follow what I think is the way back to the waiting room, though I don’t remember very well. My memory has been such shit lately.

Harry stands as soon as he sees me come through the double doors. “Hermione,” he breathes out in relief. He seems as if he was holding his breath the entire time I was back there.

I just stomp over to him. “Let’s go,” I grumble.

He follows in the wake of my harsh footfalls towards the elevator, rambling, “I’m sorry, Hermione. I know I should have told you before you went in, but I knew you would say no! And he really does help, I promise. I’m sorry, but I’m just trying to help, Hermione. You’re my best friend and I love you. I just didn’t know what else to do or who to turn to. And after I told Malfoy about you in our last session, he said you were showing signs of severe depression and you should come to see him. He’s really the best in the field, seeing as he basically invented it. And did you know he studied at Muggle university? Like, with Muggles and everything. He’s changed, I swear. Yeah, he locks the door on you the first few times, and takes your wand away, but that’s just for both of your safety.”

“He took your wand away?” I question. His nonstop apologies and explanations have lasted us to the car. I slam the door shut before he has the ability to answer me.

“Wait, he didn’t take yours? Did you not hex him or something? That’s not like you, I mean—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt, “underestimate me. He just put it back in my purse and made sure it stayed there.”

Harry moans lowly. “I guess he knows you _are_ smarter than I am. You wouldn’t take it out again after he makes you put it away.”

“He _trusted_ me, Harry,” I whisper. I come to the realization as I say it. He didn’t trust Harry, obviously. Nobody should when his emotions are at the forefront of his life. He’s a ticking time bomb of angst and that has not changed since Hogwarts—he’s just able to control it better now, probably thanks to his therapy with Malfoy.

But Malfoy, the man who had bullied me and my friends continuously for years, the man who had been a death eater and yet failed to kill Albus Dumbledore, the coward who ran from the final fight…he trusted me not to hurt him once he put my wand away.

Nobody has trusted me like that in a very long time. Harry has done literally everything for me the past two days and before that, a lot of my coworkers didn’t trust I was taking care of myself properly—my health always suffers when I get too engrossed in my work. There have been times when Ginny would force me away from my studies and take care of me. But Malfoy didn’t say anything like that. He said to take care of myself, not for Harry to or Ginny or even Ron. I’m quite glad he didn’t mention Ron actually, but that’s beside the point.

Harry came early today to pick me up because he didn’t trust me to get ready. His assumption was entirely founded and proved true but…it still exposed me to what my friends and peers think of me, especially at this moment.

I’m a fucked up sack of shit that can’t do anything for herself. Why should Malfoy trust me? He never did before. Hell, he shouldn’t. I still want to jab my wand into his chest and make him pay for everything he did to me. I still want to slap his face and punch him. I want to yell at him about everything he did to me for years.

Of course, I have a strong feeling he’ll like me to do the latter part in a later session.

I shouldn’t even go back. I would be relying on Harry too much to take me and I just can’t. He has to get back to work. Being an Auror is not a job to take lightly. If he’s assigned something, he better work and quickly.

I’m just dragging him away from his work and home life. He has a child at home and a wife. I’m all alone, like I really always have been. I can take care of myself.

We stop in front of my apartment building. “I’ll pick you up at the same time Thursday, okay?” Harry makes sure before I step out of the car.

“Oh, I can take myself. Two o’clock, right?”

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. “I’ll pick you up at one-thirty. Please, um…please take care of yourself until then and be ready to go?” I was right, he has been taking off of work to take care of me. “Though it might be Ginny next week, with James of course. You’re okay with that, right?”

“Harry, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much. You don’t need to baby me.” I haven’t had this much confidence in a while, but maybe the session with Malfoy actually did help.

“Says the woman who hadn’t eaten properly or _showered_ in two weeks,” Harry responds with a bit more bite than normal.

I just deflate in my seat. “You’re right,” I reply, fiddling with my purse strap and trying to find the door handle. “I’ll see you Thursday. Ginny next week.” Twice a week because I’m that fucked up.

“Hermione!” He grabs my wrist before I can leave the car completely. “I’m sorry, I’m just scared for you. This isn’t like you and we all want— _need_ the old Hermione back.”

I nod and back away to shut the door, a realization flooding me.

I had already begun to think about it, but Harry’s admission was just the icing on the cake. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. Nobody does.

I trudge back inside and collapse into my armchair. It’s cold from disuse, but soft and still has a blanket bunched in it. I pull it around me and flip on the television so nothing can bother me for the rest of the day.

* * *

Thursday rolls around and I am actually ready when Harry enters my flat, still with the spare key he’d taken. Part of me wants to ask for it back, but I don’t. It gives him an extra feeling of safety for me, and I don’t want to take that away from him.

The relieved smile that spreads across his face upsets me. I remain silent and just follow him to his car.

He has a fresh cut on his cheek and arm, probably from work. There was a time when I would have asked him what had happened, but I never feel like listening to Auror exploits anymore. After Ron’s nonstop babbling for years, I learned that it just doesn’t interest me in any way and I don’t like hearing about my friends getting into dangerous situations by choice. Those days have passed for me.

Harry tries to start several conversations, all of which I shut down with my silence. My stomach grumbles and I ignore it. I’m not actually hungry. There’s no point in eating anyway; it’s just a waste of time.

After he parks, I wonder if he’s always going to follow me into St. Mungo’s. I can take care of myself.

He takes hold of my upper arm in a comforting, friendly way. I hate it. It feels like he really doesn’t trust me not to go straight to the dreaded fifth floor and the disgusting office that is supposedly going to “help” me.

Malfoy is waiting like before when the assistant drops me off at his door. I glower at him, but otherwise drop onto the couch, hands immediately reaching for a nice, silver and brown pillow waiting near the edge of the pile. I play with the tassels along the edges until Malfoy speaks.

“Thank you for cooperating today,” he says graciously. It makes me sick.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” I grumble.

I hear a low chuckle and he responds, “Of course you have a choice. You’re Hermione Granger—”

“Stop that.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop insinuating that I’m this amazing witch or this unbeatable person just because I’m Hermione Granger. I’m not. I’m just a person who was book smart in school and happened to be friends with two people that made me look better back then. I’m not…I’m not who I was…” One of the ropes of a tassel starts to shred between my nails. I need to cut them. They’re disgusting and impractically long.

Malfoy doesn’t speak for a while. When he finally does, he takes a deep breath first. “Alright. You’re a regular person. And like any regular person, you do have a choice about what you do with your life. That includes willingly stepping into the office of somebody you despise.”

“Harry says you’re supposed to help.”

“Yes, that is my job and my desire. Nobody deserves to be their own worst enemy. Have you eaten today?” he changes the subject.

I think back. My stomach was growling earlier and I remember eating more of that leftover pasta—there was quite a lot. But was that today or yesterday? I finally shake my head. It was dark out when I ate; that I remember.

“Why not?” he asks while he reaches into a drawer of his desk behind him.

“I forget,” I say simply with a shrug.

His eyes narrow at me. “That’s a lie.”

“Why don’t you pump me with Veritaserum? Make me share everything for you?”

He furrows his brow. “I’m not that kind of person.” I find that hard to believe. “And that is incredibly untrustworthy for a professional trying to help you safely.”

I roll my eyes, but say nothing. He reaches forward with a few small packages in his hand. I take them with some trepidation only to see a granola bar and a pumpkin pasty in their little plastic packaging. He wants me to eat. Looking at the pumpkin pasty, my stomach growls again.

Fine. I try to delicately break through the plastic, but of course I can’t. Instead, I have to rip it harshly, a few crumbs flying into my lap and onto the still pillow there. It tastes as amazing as I remember—I haven’t had one in ages, since I tend to go grocery shopping at the muggle mart near my flat.

Malfoy smiles and asks, “So, when do you think you’ll go back to work? Unless you went yesterday?” His smile creeps me out. It’s nothing like his signature smirk, too gentle.

“No,” I shake my head again. “Er…I don’t know. Soon, I hope. I need to make money and—”

“Don’t think about the money. I can sign a form saying you were on medical leave if it comes down to that. You work in Magical Law because you love it, not because it makes you money. You’ll go back to work because your passion for it will be too much to bare leaving it behind too long. You spent your entire last session talking about it. When you’re ready and healthy enough to go back, that’s when you will.”

“So why’d you ask me when?”

“Have you given it any thought? I don’t want you worrying about it and having the thought of needing to go back to ‘real life’ hanging over your head, but it is something you need to remember—”

“I don’t _want_ to remember!” I burst out. “I want it to go away. I want everything to go away. Especially Harry and his concern for me!”

This causes Malfoy to pause. “What about Potter and his concern?”

“It’s…it’s overbearing. He thinks he’s helping, but it just makes me feel like I can’t take care of myself. I mean, I know I can’t right now, but…he doesn’t even let me try. And he—he wants me to get back to ‘normal,’ as if I even know what that is anymore. He wants the _old_ Hermione back, but…”

“But…?” Malfoy urges.

“But…This _is_ who I am. Everything I am and everything I’m doing, it’s a part of me. When I was ten—when I was ten, I’d been diagnosed with depression. Growing up with no friends and a very unapproachable personality can do that to a kid. Going to Hogwarts was my chance to escape, to be around people like me. Instead…it just isolated me more to the point that I practically lived in the girl’s lavatory, crying. I was going to end up like Moaning Myrtle!” I let out a choked laugh. “I didn’t have any friends until Harry and Ron, brave idiots that they are, saved my life from a freaking _troll_. It’s moments like those that cause people to bond forever…supposedly.”

“You were diagnosed at age ten?”

“Yes, is that all you got out of that freaking soliloquy?”

“No, I just want to keep the facts straight. What would have caused your parents to take you to a specialist at such a young age?”

I shake my head. “Maybe it had something to do with my always keeping to myself or reading really depressing adult novels…or maybe it was the blood they found in the bathtub or the claw marks they found on my arms after coming home from school.” I don’t know what is causing me to be so sarcastic, but it’s revealing too much of my past that I don’t want Malfoy to actually know. But the way I see his eyes calculating gives me both exhilaration and fear—did I give him too much information or is he using this all to actually help me?

Do I even want to be helped?

“You…self-harmed? At ten?” He seems shocked.

I sigh. “Yes. I messed up a lot, made a lot of mistakes. I tried making friends and just fucked up instead and looked like a know-it-all in class and even got a few answers wrong. I needed to be punished,” I end in a hiss.

“Punished? For making a mistake?”

“I can’t make mistakes, Malfoy! I’m supposed to be Hermione Granger; you said it yourself. I’m the brightest witch of my age! I’m brilliant and perfect and can do anything except make friends and be correct one hundred percent of the time when analyzing the deeper meanings of books and—and…and…”

I start hyperventilating, my chest constricting and my hands clawing at the pillow in my lap. Malfoy leaps up and pulls the blanket from around the back of the couch around my shoulders.

“Shh…shh…Breath with me,” he says. “In…out…in…out…”

* * *

“How did it go?” Harry asks as soon as I step foot into the waiting room. I shake my head and keep walking. He doesn’t ask any more questions until we get to my building.

“Remember, Ginny will be here on Monday, same time.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Harry.” I’m getting really annoyed at him.

“I…I know,” he responds, taken aback. He reaches out to take my hand. I let him, though my skin crawls. “I just want you to know we’re all here for you, we’re your support if you need us. Ginny’s taking you so you’re not alone when you go.”

“You don’t trust me to go if you don’t take me yourself is what you mean.” I pull away and nearly make it out of the car.

“No! It’s not like that! We trust you, Hermione, I swear!” His eyes begin to fill with tears.

“I’ll see you later, Harry.” I shut the car door and head inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that a lot of the problems that Hermione has faced in her life are similar to my own struggles. Also, she will go into more detail in later chapters and no, she is not all-out trusting Malfoy just yet. But she is starting not to trust Harry and co., which is confusing her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I'm sorry, but I don't have a set writing schedule. I'll try to update more quickly however. Enjoy, you get to see Ginny finally!

Chapter Four

It was a bad idea to be rude to Harry. That’s all I can think as I stand in the stream of the shower. The water is ice cold, but it’s all I deserve. Harry is just trying to take care of me.

I don’t deserve his care.

I don’t need his care.

Goosebumps shock over my skin, but I can’t seem to get up the nerve to turn around and adjust the temperature. There was a point when it was at least lukewarm, when I stepped in maybe. How long ago was that?

My eyes travel to the bottom of the tub, where a small trickle of reddened water slides down my leg and pools towards the drain. Shit. Damn nails.

With one last shiver, I release my arms and shut off the water. It was numbing me so I had no clue I was even clawing into my skin again. The pain just felt natural. I stumble out of the tub and immediately reach towards the drawer that holds my nail clippers. Pruney fingers struggle with cutting off the water-softened nails, but even while cold and wet, I’m able to cut them all. I slam myself onto the ground to get at my toenails next.

Finally, I stand, the breeze causing me to shiver again. Right, I’m naked and hairless. I chance a glance at the mirror and then reach for a towel with disgust. I have no right to a good body, so it’s good that I am still as flat-chested as I was when I was thirteen. Men wouldn’t like my personality, so why should they like my body?

* * *

 

With a scoff, I slam the _Daily Prophet_ down on my kitchen table. Same old news—somebody dies too young, somebody else wins a lottery, this famous band has broken up, that pureblood is losing even more of his family’s wealth to gambling (the shock!).

The gossip page also mentions me and my fantastic disappearance. Apparently, I seem to be suffering from a chronic magical disease that some healers from Greece think came from a bug that flew across the Mediterranean and infected me. Maybe Malfoy was right and I need to get him to sign off some forms to get everybody off my back.

_Hey Wizarding world; I’m not dead! I’m just dead inside._

Yes, that would work fabulously.

The buzzer from the front door rings and I shove myself away from the table to answer it. Ginny’s early, of course.

“Yes?” I inquire after pressing the button.

“Oh, shush now—Hermione! Hi, I know I’m a bit early, but I figured it would be alright. It’s Ginny, by the way.” Ginny sounds like she has taken little James with her. I hope he won’t be a bother, but I know that’s impossible.

I buzz them in without giving an answer and hobble back to the table. I was finishing a cup of hot chocolate before the _Prophet_ made me so upset. It’s cool by the time I touch it again, so a quick charm and steam begins to rise. As I take warm sip, there’s a knock at my door, followed by the waggling of the handle.

“James, don’t do that—oh! Hermione, you left your door unlocked!” Ginny calls as she enters with her son.

“I know. You can lock it behind you.” I don’t bother to shout; I probably don’t have the energy anyway.

The hot chocolate has started to warm my stomach. Lupin had always given us chocolate third year after the dementors were near. I mentioned it to Malfoy during our last session and he suggested trying different chocolate treats to not get bored. While I don’t know how much the chocolate is helping my endorphins—I’m actually just happy a pureblood like him knows about the chemicals in our brains (he went to university, Hermione, remember that)—it’s at least getting me to eat. Calories are calories at this point.

“Aunty Hermione!” James rushes over on his shaking legs. He’s barely two now, but thinks he’s all grown up. It’s adorable and can never fail to bring a smile to my face. I can’t wait to have a child of my own…

Ginny runs after him, crying, “You come back here, little man!” She sits beside me with a huff, but lets him wander around the flat after I return his hug. “You know, I think I’m getting more of a workout with him than I ever was with the Harpies.”

I let out a low chuckle, the most I can laugh at the moment. “Don’t let your old captain know. She might force motherhood on all her girls, then.”

Ginny’s eyes widen at the thought. One of her old teammates refused to even come to her baby shower because of her abhorrence towards children—kids weren’t even invited.

She reaches across the table to take my hand. “How are you feeling?” she asks, voice soft, but with an edge of importance. “Has my cream been working? Harry told me he gave it to you.”

Truth be told, I haven’t used it since the first time. It scares me, what it did to me. I wasn’t in control at that moment and I’m already so out of my own control that I can’t handle losing any more of myself. Instead, I smile slightly and hold up my mug. “I’m okay, I think. Using the old tried-and-true Lupin method of fixing everything with chocolate.”

Ginny giggles. “I can never forget that—you know Teddy’s favorite food is chocolate, right? He’s a growing boy, I get it. Seven years old, but he needs more than just chocolate or he’ll end up like his Uncle Dudley!”

This. This is what I need. Ginny isn’t treating me like a fragile China doll. I’m a person to her, the same Hermione as always. And it feels more natural to talk to her than Harry at the moment.

But then she lapses again. “You _are_ eating more than just chocolate, right? I mean, this is cocoa, but you’ve had food, haven’t you? Here, I’ll make you a sandwich.” She stands without any prompting and starts strutting around my kitchen as if it’s her own.

Oh. Now I understand why she came early.

“Hermione, how can you be out of turkey slices? You love turkey! And tuna. And watercress. Cheese? Okay, I’m going grocery shopping while you’re with Malfoy—this is a travesty!” She at last finds peanut butter and some frozen bread she pops in the toaster.

“You’re turning into your mother,” I comment offhandedly, trying not to even be in the room anymore mentally. Maybe I can find James in the living room. He likes going through the bottom few shelves of my bookcase and look at all the pretty covers and colors.

She won’t let me go. “Oh, that reminds me! Mom made you this so you won’t catch a cold.” She pulls something out of her pocket and throws it at me before turning back around to finish her sandwich.

It’s a knitted cap, like those you see cancer patients wearing. I guess I could pass myself off for having just gone through chemotherapy. The others at the office wouldn’t know anything and it would explain, well, everything. But that is a disgusting lie that I refuse to use. I’m already disgusting enough without using a serious condition to cover up my imperfections.

Ginny finally hands me the sandwich on a small plate, taking the hat from my hands and covering my head gently with it. “There you go, all better.”

All better? Is she disgusted by my baldness? At least there’s a little fuzz starting to grow. But…Great, now I disgust her physically as well as any other way my existence already did.

If I had any appetite before, it’s gone now, but I still force myself to eat the sandwich, even if it’s just for Ginny’s sake. She seems proud of me that I eat, so I have that going for me. Yet I don’t want to elicit pride for such mundane actions like _eating_. This is what I’ve become, though, and I guess I have to live with it if I want to keep Harry and Ginny happy. It’s all I can do now, anyway.

Once I’m halfway through the sandwich, Ginny stands and wanders off in search of James. She seems to look around as she goes, as if making a mental list of anything she needs to buy on her shopping trip for me. I can’t believe she’s doing chores for me now. I hear the distinct sounds of books being put back on their wooden shelves, so I know she’s tidying up after James.

A little while later, and she comes back with my purse and jacket. “Ready to go?” she asks warmly, if not a little too gently for my liking.

I nod and stand, flicking my wand so my dishes fly to the sink. At least it’s something close to cleaning up instead of them piling up on the table instead. I grab the purse and jacket from her and head to the front door.

“Hermione, don’t forget to lock it again,” she reminds me as I start down the hall. I groan internally but head back to lock the front door. What does it matter?

At this point, I’ve resigned myself to seeing Malfoy twice a week, seeing as he is still the only one who actually listens to me and understands what I’m going through. It’s disturbing, thinking that after all these years, my worst enemy is a better friend than my own best friends, but then again, it is his job. He’s stated that enough times for me to understand. This has nothing to do with Malfoy suddenly being nice and everything to do with his apparent passion for helping wizards of all walks of life.

We walk to the main street by my apartment complex and Ginny hails a cab. Right, she can’t drive, only Harry. That’s a little annoying. I’d rather we apparated there. It’s quicker and cheaper. I guess she doesn’t want to put little James through that, though. Perhaps I can go by myself from now on, just to apparate instead of going through the traveling across London.

Once at St. Mungo’s, Ginny hugs me and wishes me luck, then instructs the driver to take her to the nearest grocery store. She lets me head in on my own, for which I’m eternally grateful. Little freedoms at a time, Hermione. Get them to trust you again.

Inside Malfoy’s office, he sits with one leg crossed over the other, like usual. It’s a comfortable stance to make me feel more welcome, while also making him look more powerful and in control. I hate it. Either way, I shut the door behind me and sit. I feel proud that I don’t immediately take a pillow from the top of the stack.

“Afternoon,” he starts with.

I nod in greeting. “Afternoon.”

“How are you doing today?” He keeps asking that.

Before I can help myself, I reply, “Annoyed.” Great, now I’m going to have to talk about that.

“Annoyed? Why?” His eyebrows knit in concern but I can’t tell if it’s fake or not.

I look away and back with a sigh. “They keep treating me like I’m this fragile _thing_. Like, I can’t take care of myself. Okay, so I realize that maybe coming here might up, maybe. I’m able to get out of bed most days, even if I can’t do much more than that. But that’s something, right? Harry and Ginny should understand.”

“So are _they_ the ones making you annoyed? How are they treating you like you’re fragile?” He steeples his fingers, elbows on his propped-up leg.

I explain how Ginny came early to make sure I ate and to batter me with questions, how she and Harry won’t let me come here on my own, how she’s even going grocery shopping for me as we speak.

“I see…” Really? Do you? “What would you rather them do instead?”

“Instead?” I hadn’t thought as much about that. I just hate what they’re doing now. I shrug and finally reach for a pillow, this one with red beaded tassels all around its edge. My fingers twirl one of the beads while I think. “I just want them to treat me like I’m normal but not expect me to go back to whatever they consider the ‘normal Hermione.’ You know?”

Malfoy nods. “Have you considered telling them that while you appreciate what they’re trying to do, it’s not helping in your recovery?”

I look straight into his eyes. He’s not joking. Just tell them? Absolutely not. They love me; I couldn’t break their hearts by saying stop being my friend.

“I think you misunderstand me,” he corrects himself, an airy chuckle coming out. “You don’t have to say that you want them to _stop_ whatever they’re doing. Just tell them what you want. You want them to trust you, it seems like. You need control, I know that, and they’re taking it away from you while treating you like a child. You have every right to tell them this, that you need to take back the control in your life that you’re currently struggling with maintaining. That can include your diet, sleeping schedule, and even your therapy appointments. They’ll still love you even if you ask them to back off a little.”

I highly doubt that, but I say nothing. Maybe Malfoy has a point. If I explain gently enough, they _could_ “back off” as he said.

“By the way, I like your hat,” he adds offhandedly, gesturing to his own hair.

My eyes widen and I quickly pull the offending knitted piece from my head. I forgot it was even there. “Mrs. Weasley made it,” I respond. His eyes narrow and I know he’s calculating—why don’t I want to cover my head now? Why am I offended by a hat?

* * *

 

My main lesson from the session comes to a head when the moment I step into the hallway outside Malfoy’s office, my phone buzzes. Ginny has texted me.

_waiting outside in taxi, block north_

Great, that means she has too many groceries to carry around. Just great. I just need to tell her that I need to be able to control my life right now, that’s all. I can do this.

James hugs me as soon as I step into the backseat, squealing about missing his Aunt Hermione.

I can’t do this. What if she takes offense and won’t let me see James or Teddy anymore? What if…

No, Hermione, keep it together. Wait until you’re alone at your flat and then explain it all to her calmly. She’s more logical than Harry. It will be easier to talk to her than Harry—Malfoy said so.

I help her carry the grocery bags upstairs and then put everything away myself. She’s impressed that I have such initiative—I am too, but say nothing. I just don’t want her rummaging around my things and thinking she knows where everything goes when she doesn’t. Once she leaves, I’ll be rearranging whatever she put back that James had moved around anyway. There’s a system!

She eats an apple while watching me scurry around the kitchen and pantry. Wow, Ginny actually thought of everything. Three years ago, she could barely keep her own fridge stocked.

I used to have to help her.

What has happened?

That will change, though, and soon. I finally sit across from her at the table. Ginny smiles at me kindly, as if I’m a hospital patient.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Where’s your hat?”

I mentally berate myself. How stupid can I be? She obviously hates seeing me bald; I should have put the darn hat back on before getting in the taxi with her. “Sorry,” I apologize. “It’s in my coat pocket—warm in Malfoy’s office.”

“Okay, as long as you didn’t lose it. Do you want me to get it for you?” She really wants me to wear it. Definitely not about my health at this point, all about her comfort level. Screw that.

I pull my sweater hood over my head. “Nah, this is just fine.” A fire in me wants to ignore her discomfort at my state, but I can’t offend her more with what I’m about to say. Best stay as much on her good side as possible, or I’m down to more friends.

“Ginny…” I finally start.

“Yeah? You okay, Hermione?” She leans forward. James makes a screech from the other room and we both glance through the doorway to see him excited at whatever program is on the television. Ginny looks back with more concern than ever.

“Ginny…” I try again. “I’m…I think I’m…getting better. Slowly, obviously. But…hey, I’m alive, right?” She smiles, a little nervous now. “I mean…I think that…” Here goes. “I think that you and Harry need to back off,” I rush out, unsure if what I said was even English or just gibberish.

Her eyes bug out. “Excuse me?”

“I can take care of myself, Ginny. You can stop babying me.”

“We’re just trying to help, Hermione.”

“I know!” I nearly bellow. I toss my head back before looking at her again, as if asking for strength from God. “But it’s not… _helping_. I mean…I need…” I let out a frustrated sigh.

“What do you need? Do you need space? You were always welcoming of Harry and me and Ron before. You love entertaining us and taking care of any of us when we’re sick, even if Harry has _me_ now. Why can’t we just return the favor, hmm?” Yup, she’s offended.

“It’s not like that,” I try explaining. “I need control, Ginny! You know me. I need to control every detail and if I want to get my life back, I need to start taking back my control. Thank you for everything you and Harry have been doing for me this past week, but I need—Malfoy says—”

“Oh, Malfoy says. Great, so you’ll listen to that git but only when it means getting rid of your actual friends?”

“What? No, I was listening to him, too, with the chocolate thing—”

“You said Lupin taught you that!”

“I brought up Lupin in our last session and he said why not? I need to start getting my endorphins actually working again, so why not?”

“What the fuck are endorphones?”

“ _Endorphins!_ They’re chemicals in my brain that are fucked up when I have a mental illness like depression! Oh, Merlin, Ginny. You have a cell phone, but you still don’t know anything about Muggle science?!”

“At least I admitted to myself I had post-partem depression and got help. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Not when you don’t tell your best friend when all she wants to do is help!”

“Sound familiar?” Ginny sits back down with a resigned look on her face, her arms crossed. I didn’t even realize we had both stood up.

I stare at her blankly, falling back into my own seat. I take a deep breath. “I need to take control of my life again, that’s all,” I say in summary of our wonderfully painful fight.

“Fine,” Ginny finally agrees after an uncomfortably long pause. “I won’t be here on Thursday. You can find your way there I’m guessing?”

I nod, not used to the feeling of my hood scraping directly against my skin. (Then again, I am also not used to it fitting over my head.)

“Come on, James!” Ginny calls as she heads towards the kitchen door. “We’re heading home.”

James whines, but goes with his mom. The front door slams behind them.

I’m an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter I've been waiting to write for a while, so it'll hopefully come sooner than this one did. Don't forget to comment and subscribe!
> 
> (PS: No, most wizards still don't know basic muggle science in the story's world. Hey, at least they're starting to embrace technology, right?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all. This chapter is incredibly exhibition heavy. It should be interesting to read, but you’re going to get important new information (some you’ve probably guessed by now) in each scene. Hopefully, this means I can start to give greater time skips in upcoming chapters.

Chapter Five

It always seems eerie when you see somebody outside of their normal location. For example, when I see the Magical Law secretary outside the Ministry at the grocery store or a mutual acquaintance’s party. Or the man I usually buy my breakfast muffin from eating out at the restaurant Ron took me to once.

So my surprise is obviously quadrupled when I see Malfoy lurking in my favorite bookshop.

After a month of regularly seeing Malfoy for therapy sessions, I have finally gotten up enough strength (mentally and physically) to step through the doors of the quaint store, with its stained-glass lanterns and plush seating. They have an astonishingly large nonfiction section I often find myself perusing. It is, of course, a Muggle bookshop, which is why I fancy it so much. I don’t often see people I know here.

This is the first time I’ve entered in much too long. The layout has changed slightly, with one display table moved to make way for another and shelves facing different directions. I almost hightail it out of there at the sight.

Instead, I push down the dissonance in me and continue to walk towards what should be the fiction section. I rarely read fiction, but can sometimes find historical novels fascinating. I was thinking that if I could just maybe find a particularly good novel, I could break my reading dry-spell.

The books on my own shelves at home just don’t seem interesting anymore. There are a few I’ve read numerous times, but their plots or their theses are arbitrary now—too known, too understood. There’s no surprise anymore than can hook me. No reason to read them again.

The fiction section _was_ located on the left-hand side of the shop, around the side of the main shelving area. I fail to take notice that it’s been moved up, it’s labels taking up the left of the general area instead of the usual nutrition and self-help books located there. Because I’m still lost in my world, wishing everything could just remain the same, I continue to the left nook, the old floorboards creaking underneath my feet.

At first look, I know I’m in the wrong section, though my mind’s map tells me otherwise. The books lining the shelves have a different look, a different style of cover and thickness. The signs above the shelves let me know this is now the science section. How could so much change in just a month and a half?

The second fact I notice is that I’m not alone. A relatively tall man with near-white blond hair stands to the side, engrossed in a book he’s holding. Through the blue-grey scarf and long black cloak, I can still tell he’s my own therapist, Draco Malfoy.

I gasp slightly and try to turn away without being noticed, but I’m entirely too curious as to why Malfoy of all people would be in a Muggle bookstore so far from both his office and his family mansion.

“Granger?” he questions, looking up at the small sounds I’ve made.

I turn completely towards him and address him, “Malfoy.” I bob my head and am again torn between trying to find the misplaced fiction section and questioning the wizard in front of me.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, a smirk crossing his lips. His eyes are dull, though, with heavy bags beneath them. He looks nothing like he does in his office, with grace and ease emanating from him with a hint of superiority.

“You as well. You _do_ know this is a Muggle store, right?” I whisper as I step closer.

He grins this time. “Of course. Where else would I find psychological research? Flourish and Blotts? Those lot barely understand what my job is, let alone what books I enjoy reading for it in my free time.”

“Right…” What am I supposed to say? My job relies heavily on Wizarding books and histories. I come here for my own entertainment. After a moment, I ask, “What book have you found?”

“Just a collection of PTSD survivor’s stories. I think I’ve read a few of these, though, from case studies.” He shrugs and places the book back on the shelf he’d apparently pulled it from.

“I’ve never much looked at the psychology books here, but their histories and politics collection is staggering for such a small shop.”

Malfoy leans against the shelf. “I can see why you like it here, then. Though not why you were sneaking around the science section.”

I stare at the ground in shame. “It’s my…first time coming in over a month and they moved everything around. I haven’t been reading for a while. I thought a new book might help break the dry spell.”

“Ah, well, new books always seem to cheer me up, though by the looks of my home library…I should probably see a Therapy Healer of my own.” He chuckles slightly. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard Malfoy make a joke at his own expense. He’s also never seemed this casual in our sessions.

“I bet Astoria doesn’t like that too much,” I try to joke in return. His eyes darken at the comment. Great.

He looks away for a moment, face completely blank. I guess even though he seems to be more personable outside of his office, we should maintain a professional relationship. Commenting on his home life is off-limits.

He speaks so softly, I can barely hear, “Yeah, she really didn’t appreciate my book collection much…” I can’t help but notice he’s speaking in the past tense.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly, my knee-jerk reaction. My nails rake into my forearm behind my back. “I—”

“No need to apologize. I’m surprised the _Prophet_ hasn’t gotten its claws on the news yet. Astoria and I…are separated.”

What? I’m stunned speechless.

“Yes, and I believe she’ll have the divorce papers filed within the week.” His gaze is distant. I can feel this disappointment dripping from his words, though I don’t know what he is disappointed in—himself, his inability to keep his supposedly perfect marriage from collapsing, Astoria’s actions, or what.

“I’m…so sorry…” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t.” He shakes his head. “I gave you that information freely. You have to stop apologizing for everything; it’s unhealthy.”

“You’re one to talk,” I retort out of instinct. Harry and I have had this argument before and I am so used to responding that way to him, seeing as he constantly apologizes for just about everything in his life. Then again, he has stopped in the past year or so—probably because of Malfoy, of course.

His eyes narrow in amusement. “You’re right, I am one to tell you what is and isn’t healthy for you mentally. Astute observation, Granger.”

Thank Merlin he hasn’t gotten angry at me. I don’t think I could handle any more anger towards my actions at the moment. Ginny still hasn’t talked to me since she stormed out of my flat. Malfoy knows this, though, and probably is changing his attitude to work with who I am; he is rather conniving, a Slytherin, after all.

“But,” he sighs, “this isn’t a therapy session, so I really can’t tell you what to do at the moment. In fact, to anybody else, we are just colleagues, old school rivals if you wish.”

Malfoy turns back to the shelf he’d been looking at before I’d come in. I think it might be time for me to leave…

“What book are you looking for? I might have a recommendation,” he says before I can even turn around completely. He hasn’t looked back at me, however. His eyes are just as distant as before, not even seeing the books in front of him.

I stammer out, “I-I think I want a good historical fiction to get me back into reading. Nothing too romantic or historically inaccurate though.” The outer corners of my lips rise in a dreamy half-smile. I can’t stand when history is portrayed inaccurately in books, no matter how fictional. But when it’s all done right…

“I’m afraid I don’t know too many fictional Muggle books,” he answers forlornly. “If you’d like, I could bring some Wizarding classics to our next…the next time I see you. My mother used to love reading them and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me taking a few off her hands.”

“That would be…nice.” I pause another moment. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replies with one last glance towards me. I can tell he’s getting lost in his own world and problems and leave him to them.

Something’s not right in his personal life; that much I can tell. I let my mind wander as to what could cause him such distress, why he would get a divorce from such a high profile Pureblood.

No. She’s the one filing for divorce. What happened to their relationship? Every gossiping witch (and even some wizards) said they were often seen together in public since they first got engaged. Their public appearance hadn’t decreased in the past year at all, to my knowledge. Then again, over a month of not paying attention to anything in the Wizarding world wouldn’t leave me with much current “celebrity” gossip.

Obviously, it’s hurting him if he looks so lost at the thought of it. Is it the money or actual love—or at least fondness? Purebloods rarely married out of love, after all. Was this his only chance at a Pureblood heir? The last I heard, there were rumors Astoria was pregnant, but wasn’t even showing yet. After all, it was just gossip.

They couldn’t divorce while she was pregnant, so those rumors couldn’t be true. But then why? And it is sure making Malfoy miserable.

I pull a random book off a shelf at eye-level. The cover looks interesting but one glance at the summary and I know it isn’t for me.

I shouldn’t even be this concerned with Malfoy. He’s my therapist, nothing more. I’ve only been seeing him for a month; it’s not like I completely trust him yet either.

But he trusts me. Obviously more than Harry or Ginny does.

Ginny, who hasn’t talked to me in over a week. And Harry, who calls or texts me at least twice a day and is now bugging me to go back to work. Have I eaten yet today? Did I shower today? Am I using Ginny’s magic paste? Did I actually go see Malfoy or am I lying?

He visited me a couple days ago, brought some more groceries. He said he wanted to bring James, but Ginny wouldn’t let him. He did my laundry again. I hate it. I can do it myself…I just need to get up the motivation or run out of underwear…

_Clean_ underwear…

 “No…” I mutter, reading another summary. Maybe I’ll just wait for Malfoy to bring those books from his mom.

At the thought, tears start to burn behind my eyes, but I don’t know why. More accurately, I don’t want to think about why.

I’ve yet to share that detail with him. Should I? He wants me to be honest. I’m learning how to be all over again.

Maybe I should trust Malfoy.

He trusts me.

He should know what’s best; it’s his job.

I just have to ignore the last fourteen years of my life and what he did in it.

* * *

 

 Harry promised he wouldn’t wait for me after my session and just wanted to see me again, have a nice, relaxing lunch out with me. I don’t believe him, but I’m losing trust in all my friends lately. And I don’t want to lose Harry completely like I’ve lost his wife for the moment.

Which is how I find myself sitting across from him at a small table in a deli near St. Mungo’s. “Isn’t this place nice?” Harry asks after swallowing a rather large bite of his sandwich.

I take another spoon of my soup before answering. “Yeah, this cream of broccoli isn’t too bad.”

“I found it while exploring around this area when I was going to St. Mungo’s regularly and didn’t want to go home just yet after sessions…They’re emotionally draining, you know?”

“I know,” I answer, albeit slightly sarcastically. Harry doesn’t catch on—a little unusual, seeing as he’s the sarcasm king most of the time. I think he’s too blissed out on his panini.

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks after a few more bites.

I shrug. “Finally went to a bookstore, but didn’t find anything.” I don’t mention seeing Malfoy there. I don’t want to answer any prying questions. And what if Malfoy doesn’t want me mentioning it at all?

“I’ll go with you next time, help you find something,” he says. “Mm, or Ron could take you! You said that he used to be so good at finding books you’d enjoy.”

I smile for a second, remembering when going to the bookstore with Ron felt natural, or coming home to a new book with a little bow on top after he messed up. They were always just what I was in the mood for, too. “Ron really does understand my tastes…” I say wistfully.

But that is in the past now. I have barely spoken to Ron except at Weasley family gatherings in the past year.

“He misses you,” Harry adds quietly.

I shake my head. “We’re not getting back together, Harry. He knows that. You know that.”

“He misses you as a _friend_ , Hermione. He—I— _we_ miss, well, us,” he emphasizes while gesturing his hand in a circle around the table between us. “The three of us, the Golden Trio.”

“Harry…” I start.

“No, don’t ‘Harry’ me. I know, I know. We can’t go back to the past; I get it. That was school and fighting Voldemort and we can never have what we had completely. But just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we can’t all be friends again.”

I don’t dare look him in the eye. I’ve lost my appetite completely, but continue to spoon soup into my mouth for a few more moments, just for something to do.

Finally, my spoon clatters onto the plate beneath my soup bowl. “Harry, we can’t just be ‘friends again.’ That’s not how adulthood works. That’s not how…I can’t. Not right now. Not while…” I sigh.

He closes his eyes and puts his head in his hand, elbow leaning on the table. “Fine,” he gives in after a long silence. “He had a feeling you’d say something like that. But we wanted to try anyway.”

“Is that why you wanted to meet me for lunch? Was Ron going to pop out of the restroom if I agreed to be friends again like nothing happened?”

“No, I told him that was a stupid idea and you would just go and hate him again if he did something like that.”

“Harry, I don’t hate him! I just need…time. I need more time.” I’m getting frustrated, not just at Harry, but at myself.

He looks away in shame. “I get it…It’s just, it’s been a year already. How much more time?”

“I don’t want—I don’t want to think about this while I can barely keep my head on my shoulders, okay? I want to take everything a day at a time. You know my favorite bookstore? I said I went there the other day? They changed their layout. It set me off for the rest of the day.” That wasn’t the only thing, but it did upset me just as much as seeing Malfoy out of place. “I don’t want to think about the future and other people right now. Is that okay? Will Ron understand?”

“You can never tell if he’ll understand or not,” Harry says with a snort. He’s right. One minute, Ron could be the most emotionally intuitive person I know. The next, he’s freaking out over a flippant comment and ignores reason for a week.

I sigh in resignation and finish what I can of the soup. It really isn’t half bad, better than anything I’ve ever made that’s not from a can…though I don’t take much skill to beat. Cooking has never been my strong suit despite being so adept at potions. Even Mrs. Weasley gave up on teaching me.

At least I can knit?

Oh yes, there’s something I could do…

* * *

 

“But what’s it all worth? Nobody has thanked me yet. The house elves stopped cleaning our tower when I started trying to free them back at Hogwarts. Do people not want rights? Do they—”

“Granger,” Malfoy stops me. Again. “You’re rambling about work again. I hate to say this, seeing as you’ve already missed over a month and I have a feeling it’s the opposite of what you would normally like, but perhaps you need a vacation?”

“A vacation? How is a vacation going to help me? I’m already—”

“No, you’re absolutely right. I think you can only have a vacation after you feel accomplished in something. Am I wrong?”

I look away, partially in thought and partially in defeat. Why does he know me so well? It’s not fair. Even I wouldn’t have come up with that answer. “After I get my bill through the Wizengamot?” I offer.

“I think that’s a fair compromise. Hmm…” He pauses with a smirk. For once, I don’t want to slap it off his face. “Where would you like to vacation do you think?”

“Australia,” comes my immediate response. I haven’t had time in the past few years to go, and I’m itching to go back.

Malfoy arches a brow. “Okay,” he says, taken aback at my swift answer. “Why Australia? Do you have a special connection there?”

Shit. What am I supposed to say? “I…have family that live there that I haven’t seen in a long time.” It’s not an outright lie.

However, Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “Family? I wouldn’t normally consider seeing family a vacation, but then again…you’ve met most of my family.” Another joke. He’s been getting oddly comfortable with me, even while I continue to evade a lot of his most probing questions. I think he’s putting too much trust in me.

“I grew up in a different world, Malfoy. Visiting family can be a vacation to some.” I give him a smirk of my own.

“Very true. How are you related?”

I pause again. I didn’t think he’d ask such questions and I’ve never actually lied about my plans when I traveled to Australia in the past. Harry, Ron, Ginny…Neville, Luna…they all know. Would it be fair to keep the information from Malfoy then?

He can see the haunted look in my eye and doesn’t press onward for a long while, letting me breathe to calm down. In for four, hold for four, out for four. In for five, hold for five, out for five. By the time I get to eight, I’m able to look at him again.

He is grinning.

“I’m glad you’ve taken my breathing techniques seriously. If you don’t want to go back to the subject, you don’t need to.”

I shake my head. I might as well tell him. He’s bound to put two and two together eventually. “Before I left with Harry and Ron to hunt down the pieces of Voldemort’s soul,” I begin, “I…wanted to keep my parents as safe as possible.”

He furrows his brows in confusion.

“They’d always wanted to go to Australia…at least for a short vacation, you know? But they never had the chance. They were both dentists and had full-time jobs and patients to worry about and me…”

“You didn’t…”

I don’t acknowledge him. “I…I obliviated them…They don’t know who I am…And I haven’t found them since…” I can barely keep my voice as tears strain the back of my throat. No, do not cry in front of Malfoy.

“You’ve gone looking before.” It’s not a question. I nod anyway. “Granger, that’s not a vacation…It’s quite the opposite actually.”

“I don’t care. It takes vacation days from work. I’m somewhere outside of Britain, where it’s sunny all the time. It’s a vacation.”

He leans forward, as if wanting to reach out to me physically, but knowing how inappropriate that would be. “I…understand how much your parents mean to you. And how much you must mean to them—”

“Malfoy, they don’t remember me.”

“Which is why finding them will hurt that much more. Imagine the look of confusion on your mother’s face…as she says to you, her only daughter, that she has no child.”

“Don’t.”

“I’ve seen family, my own blood, burned off our family tree tapestry. I’ve seen family deny family, as if they share no blood, no love. I’m not saying it’s the same thing—”

“It’s not.”

“But it hurts, Granger. It hurts. It destroys you, tears at your veins, as if your genes want release from the vile skin you wear that looks so much like them.”

“Stop.”

“You will not find happiness when you find your parents—and I do say when because there is no if. They cannot be dead; they’re Grangers. And if I know anything about Grangers from you, they’re impossible to kill. You will not find happiness, only pain. They may be your blood, but unless you can reverse as powerful of an obliviate as you probably performed, they are no longer your family. And you might hurt them in the process as well.”

“Please,” I beg. “Stop making sense.”

“Excuse me?” Malfoy questions. Of all the responses I could have to his little speech, I don’t think that was one he expected.

“You keep making too much sense. _I’m_ supposed to be the logical one in my life, but nothing I say matters anymore. And everything that spurts out of your mouth makes sense and I’m beginning to trust you over my own judgement, which scares me beyond anything I’ve ever faced before.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond. Instead, he considers me for a long moment. He leans back in his chair again, as if trying to get as far away from me as possible in the small office space, then steeples his fingers against his face in thought.

“I…apologize for my outburst. My words were very unprofessional and I am sorry for making you feel uncomfortable in what should be a safe zone for you.” I have the strongest feeling he’s suppressing his own problems and mine are hitting a little too close to home at the moment for him.

I shake my head. “Thank you, but…” I start to giggle, as horrible as it feels in the situation. “You’re the first person to say something like that to my face.”

“And that makes you laugh because…?”

“Because! Everybody else just…tiptoes around the topic with me. They don’t want to tell me that it’s a fruitless effort or maybe I’ll never find them, and _nobody_ has even given thought to what might happen _when_ I find them. I mean, I have, of course. It haunts me every time I think about it. I have no parents. They’re dead to me, I don’t exist to them, but there they are, traipsing around Merlin-knows-where, living…”

“Granger,” Malfoy interrupts again. He needs to stop doing that. I’m finally talking again, isn’t that a good thing?

“What?”

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. I know it’s taken you a while to feel comfortable enough to trust in me this past month.” He speaks in a gentle voice, a lot of his usual haughtiness gone. It surprises me, but I appreciate it.

I look away, towards the pillow pile, undisturbed since I walked in today. “It’s hard, you know…”

“I understand.”

“But I trust you more than I trust myself at the moment, and you’ve given me control back in my life that, well, I think my friends were trying to take away.” I don’t know what is giving me the courage to share all this, but it’s beginning to feel natural in this room.

Malfoy sighs. “They’re having a hard time figuring out how to talk with you. They don’t know what’s going on inside your head like I do.”

I stay silent for a while before whispering, “Thank you.”

At this point, a large part of me starts to wonder what caused Malfoy to go with this route in life. He didn’t need to have a job to stay the rich, successful pureblood that he is. He didn’t need to go to Muggle university for a job. And he sure as all hell doesn’t need to help people if he doesn’t feel like it. Why did he choose this future?

Then again, I chose this future, too.

“I will see you at this time next week, okay?” Malfoy interrupts my internal monologue.

I look up, confused. But that would mean…

He smiles calmly, his eyes soft. “We’ll try moving to just once a week, to give you more control. I think it would be best now, what do you think?”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

“Good. See you next week. Be good until then. Remember your breathing.”

I nod again, standing and reaching for my purse. “Yes, I will.”

I’m in a stupor until the door to the therapy wing shuts behind me, closing me off from my feelings for another week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: I said that this will be slow burn for Dramione, but I had to keep reminding myself while writing this chapter and deleting sentences that were too forward. Ugh.
> 
> Also, I abhor stories that make Ron the bad guy for whatever reason. He’s not an abusive person, just petty. He would never cheat if he was actually in a monogamous relationship. No, I don’t agree with the real Epilogue that he and Hermione should have gotten together in the end, but they could have dated for a few years and drifted apart. They’re just not compatible enough where it matters for both of them, I think, to get married and have kids. And that’s how the relationship will be portrayed in this story.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you're continuing to enjoy this story. Please remember to subscribe and comment!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of updates, but I’ve been very distracted lately. I am working on motivating myself to write more so I can continue to give you readers a story.
> 
> Just to remind you, since I always seem to forget for some odd reason—this story takes place seven years after the war. It is currently 2005 for our characters. (The movies seem to forget this and as a costume designer I cannot stand it, but that’s a rant for another day.)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter, which takes place mostly at the Ministry!

Chapter Six

Deep breaths, Hermione. Just one deep breath at a time. Keep yourself calm and everything will be fine. They don’t know what has been going on, what you’ve done recently. They all think you’ve been sick.

But what if somebody saw me going in and out of St. Mungo’s?

Nobody would assume you would go to the Therapy Wing, Hermione. Just step out of the elevator and act like you belong here.

It’s my office, of course I belong here.

There you go, that’s the attitude.

I smile at my confidence and open the elevator doors into the second floor of the Ministry of Magic. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see papers rushing about through the air and people hurrying from one end of the long corridors to the other. It is just the right amount of chaos to call home.

“Hermione!” I hear a young voice call out from a desk to my right. I turn and smile brightly at the witch, a woman who is always a delight to see when I feel like small talk.

I continue through the corridor towards my office, smiling and nodding at a few more acknowledgements. Few people mention my long absence, and only one wizard says that he’s happy to see I’m feeling better. They seem to all assume it was a physical illness and nobody mentions my lack of long bushy hair. Good.

Nevertheless, when I finally reach the wooden door separating me from my office, a sense of dread washes over me. This is it. I step foot in here and I can’t go back home and lie in bed. I’ll have assignments to work on, paperwork to catch up on, and my bill to finish.

I push back my shoulders in what is really a fake resolve that should get me through maybe the next ten minutes and push the door open. I’m immediately assaulted with my coworkers rushing up and shouting.

“Granger, I’m so glad you’re healthy!”

“Hermione, what a pleasant surprise!”

“Finally, now we can get work done!”

“Here’s all the files we need you to work through today; we’re running too far behind.”

“Are you feeling all better now? Should we go near you?”

“St. Mungo’s treat you all right?”

“Granger, there’ve been six separate werewolves step through here expecting to see you! Get rid of them!”

Deep breaths. Slow them down.

I smile—more like grimace—and push everybody out of my way. “Thank you,” I breathe out, barely able to fill my lungs enough to talk. I’d like to get to my desk. Now.

Silence washes over me as I collapse at my desk. Thank Merlin! The enchantments and charms are still in place. I was worried I’d have to redo them all and waste more time. I’m always a waste of time…everything I do.

And the werewolves that have apparently been showing up? They’re just causing problems for everybody else and I wasn’t here to help them. See, I am a waste of everybody’s time.

The deafening silence around me counteracts all the chaos and noise from my walk to this seat. It allows me to take those deep breaths I need so desperately. Follow the numbers, just like Malfoy had said. Four. Five. Six.

A knock on my desk disrupts me. Shit, I should be working now.

“Ms. Granger?”

I turn to see the secretary of our department, Gretchen, holding a stack of parchment out towards me.

The circle of charms around my desk prevents me from hearing anything from around the office, and my coworkers being disrupted by my constant mumblings, but it only extends so far. Anybody who needs to talk to me only has to step up to my desk and knock on the wood in front of them so I’m not startled by their sudden appearance.

“These are the messages left for you, people who visited, and any paperwork that I’ve organized for you to work on by urgency.” She passes the papers to me so I may look through them.

“Thank you, Gretchen.” I give her a small smile, but I’m starting to feel how fake every smile I’ve given out today has been, this included.

I look through the papers as she walks away, internally screaming at every little thing I’ve left behind for so long. It’s painful to see all my hard work, months of labor, resulting in paperwork and notes about how upset everybody is. I’ve missed too much.

I have to pull back the tears edging into my eyes and stand firm. I will get this all done before the end of the week. I have to.

Somehow, after quite a while of just staring at one of the pages and letting my mind go completely blank, I set to work. I don’t mean for the random times of utter lack of motivation. They just strike me and I go with them.

Either way, nobody bothers me again because I look like I am hard at work for several hours. I am, of course, but it’s because I can’t let myself think about anything else at the moment. I do not exist. My friends do not exist. My last session with Malfoy did not happen.

The only thing that matters is that justice is upheld, that everybody has equal and fair rights, and I get over a month’s worth of backlog done with by the end of the day so I can feel accomplished about something in my life.

Therefore, by the time lunch comes around, I’m shocked that I’ve barely gotten any real work done. I haven’t touched anything concerning my bill. It’s all busywork and makes me feel like nothing I’m doing is accomplishing anything. I sigh and lean back in my chair. I’m not hungry. But I should keep up appearances.

I stand and follow my fellow workers out of the office and into the main hallway on our way to the cafeteria.

Often times, I would skip lunch and eat when I get hungry around two or three in the afternoon, partially to avoid the crowd. Today, I think it’s best to stay on everybody’s good side, keep up appearances, and pretend I’m not a fanatic loner who is not actually friends with any of her coworkers.

After paying for my tray, I sit down with my office mates. They’re incredibly happy to see me with them and must remark on this fact.

“Don’t see you at lunch with us too often, Hermione. Glad you’re feeling sociable today,” one says, hoping I don’t catch the bite I obviously sense behind her sweet disposition.

I smile and reply, “Not being social for a month really makes you crave people, I guess.” I dig into the bland food in front of me before anybody can talk to me.

* * *

“You went to work?” Malfoy leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He’s surprised, but also seems happy. It feels good to impress him.

I nod. “Three days now. I’ve actually gotten a lot done, despite the drawbacks.” I puff my chest out with pride. I am an efficient worker when I can keep my mind focused.

“The drawbacks being your extended absence?” Malfoy inquires.

“That…” I draw out, bobbing my head from side to side, “and my total inability to concentrate for more than two hours at a time. And then I need to take a break, walk around. I brought one of the books you gave me and reading it seems to help distract me until I can focus again.”

“I’m glad you can focus on the book. Which one?” He smiles.

“ _The Curse in the Forest_. It’s rather trashy, but better than trashy Muggle novels, that’s for sure. I like that there’s no real substance to it at the moment, though I’d rather read something…more involved soon. Once my mind is able to keep track of all the characters and the events properly. I tried reading that one, err… _Flesh and Blood_. I think it’s a mystery, but I just couldn’t keep anything straight.”

Malfoy nodded. “That’s why I had my mother pick out a variety of books for you, to not make you feel inadequate at the moment, but also not bore you with fantasies that any old witch could put onto paper ineloquently.”

“Thank you,” I mutter. No matter how much I owe this man by now, I still have trouble expressing that. Some part of me still hates him and will probably continue until I die, and that will never change. However, he has helped me so far and I am able to get back to work, share my feelings more openly (even if just with him in our now-weekly sessions), and even make my own dinners…in the microwave. Hey, at least I’m eating regularly again. And waking up at a decent hour. And actually going to work, despite every fiber of my being trying to drag me back into my flat.

“Just curious,” I start after a short silence. “Your mother doesn’t…” I gestured towards myself, embarrassed to even be asking. Having grown up with dentists for parents, I know full well about the doctor/patient confidentiality that I hope Malfoy learned at his time in Muggle university. But it has been nagging me lately.

Malfoy looks confused before his eyes widen in shock. “Oh, no! I would never tell my family about my patients. It’s completely confidential. Loaning books to a friend of mine in need of a library upgrade is completely different.”

Library upgrade? Now that’s insulting. Friend? I’m hoping that was just an exaggeration to make sure his mum didn’t know I am one of his patients. I am not his friend, despite how…genial I have been with him lately.

He smirks. “Not to say that we are friends, Ms. Granger. You are my patient. My mother, of course, just doesn’t need to know that.”

Of course.

* * *

One of the best feelings in the world is the feeling of accomplishment. It brings pride that swells in your chest as you complete an important task. It makes a smile bloom across your face and lets you hold your head up high.

So why don’t I feel happy?

I don’t feel accomplished.

“The bill went through,” I say to Harry when he stops by my desk. I’m completely numb.

Harry’s Auror office is down the hall from mine, seeing as we all deal with Magical Law Enforcement, so this isn’t the first time he’s visited me since I’ve been back at work. Still, his visits aren’t usually the highlights of my day anymore.

His mouth cracks into a wide grin and he exclaims, “That’s amazing, Hermione!” He runs around my desk and grabs under my chin to kiss the crown of my head. When I had hair there, it always smelled of my shampoo and he, Ron, and even Ginny loved to smell it when they kissed the top of my head. I guess being taller than I am gave them the right.

Now that my hair is about a centimeter in length, it causes Harry to draw back slightly, lips caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to act disgusted but is completely put off.

“Why aren’t you celebrating?” he asks as he sits on the edge of my desk, completely casual in only the way Harry Potter can be. I want to push the desk slightly from under him just to watch him fall.

No, Hermione, that’s mean.

And then the desk would be off center and it would take ages to get it right back and also remove any scuff marks it would make to the tile beneath it. I hate scuff marks. They’re smears of laziness.

I shrug in response. “I don’t know, Harry. It just feels so anticlimactic, you know? I fought for months and months, then everything finally goes into motion when I’m completely out of the picture? Two weeks back, and it’s passed through the Wizengamot as if they hadn’t been fighting it the entire time. I mean, I think they had a few werewolves come speak to them personally after I vanished anyway. I just don’t feel…”

Why can’t I feel any excitement?

“You’ve worked your butt off all year for this, and have been wanting it since Hogwarts.” Harry takes my hands in his. My arms are limp and I can’t look him in the eye. “Tell me you’re elated you’ve gotten more rights for the underprivileged!”

“Tell me what there is to be elated about, Harry. I just…don’t feel content with what I’ve done.”

“Okay, so it’s only one step, but it’s a step that needed taking before you could—”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, that’s not it. It’s great, okay, one step closer to equal rights for all magical creatures. Yay. But, I just…I’m sorry. It feels like I didn’t do it this time. And I don’t hear any news reporters banging on that door asking for my interview. Nobody is going to appreciate this—”

“Remus would have. Teddy will.”

“Teddy’s not a werewolf, Harry,” I remind him. I’m afraid he sometimes thinks of Lupin’s son as a replacement, the way Sirius sometimes made it seem like Harry was a replacement for James. I’ve talked with Ginny about it, and she, sadly, agrees with me.

“Then think about all the hundreds, maybe even thousands of people you’ve given jobs to. They can make a living, be a part of normal life—”

“But what if they don’t even want that anymore? What if they’re happy in their packs, Harry? I’ve made a mistake and I feel all wrong, and nothing I do matters anyway. Who’s going to thank me?”

“I will. And countless others, I promise. Hermione. Do your deep breathing exercises.”

“I’m not hyperventilating, Harry.” I wrench my hands out of his.

But the mention of the breathing reminds me of my sessions with Malfoy and suddenly I realize why I have such a pit of dread eating at my stomach.

“I have to go on vacation now,” I mutter, mostly to myself. Harry doesn’t catch it. I repeat, “Malfoy wants me to go on vacation once my bill is through. Well, it’s through. I get to go to Australia now.”

My parents wouldn’t recognize me now even if they didn’t have their memories wiped of my existence.

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No, we’re not letting you go again. Especially right now.”

“We?” I question.

“All of us. Ron and Ginny, Neville and Luna. If you have to go on vacation, why don’t you go to Paris or Florence? You’d love Rome or even New York. Please, we don’t want you—”

“It’s my decision.”

“Malfoy won’t let you.”

I glance away. He’s right. He wouldn’t let me, even if he really isn’t in charge of my actions.

A shock of red hair causes me to glance up at the front of my desk again. As soon as he’s in my charmed bubble, Ron Weasley scratches the back of his neck.

“C’mon, Harry. Norman needs your signature on something. I think we’re getting another assignment soon, too.” He sways from foot to foot nervously.

“Hello, Ronald,” I decide to grant him.

He steals a peek at me but immediately looks away. “Hermione,” he grunts. At least that’s better than last time. He’s actually said something.

It used to be wonderful that we all work on the same floor. Now it’s just a curse.

And it makes everything so awkward.

Harry glances back down at me. “Promise me you’ll talk to him before you make any decisions,” he says in a lowered voice, even though Ron has already left my desk’s area. His insistence reminds me that maybe he just cares too much for me and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad one at this moment.

* * *

The next day, I have a feeling the _Prophet_ and any other news rag will be going crazy.

Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy walks into my wing, proud but anxious. She walks passed me like I don’t exist—though I doubt she recognizes me, and I thank Merlin for that—and keeps going towards one of my coworkers, the one who must be handling her divorce. It’s the only reason she would be deigning this floor with her valuable presence.

Several minutes later, Malfoy struts through the doorway to follow his soon-to-be ex-wife. He gives half-smiles and smirks to several of my coworkers, and a nod with his smile to me, not slowing at all. I can see the darkness in his eyes that he had at the bookstore.

I don’t know if this meeting will be making the divorce official, or if it’s a step or even a formality on the way towards divorce. Wizarding laws when it comes to marriage and children confuse me compared to Muggle laws. The only similarity was the aversion to same-sex marriages, oddly enough (though England just announced they will recognize civil unions, at least).

I spend the next hour focusing on my work. I have so much extra paperwork to get through now that my bill has gone through. I want to say that it’s not fair, but as long as werewolves can get equal opportunities…

I’m walking back to my desk after speaking with one of my coworkers when I hear the scraping of two chairs against the tiles at the back of office. They’re quickly followed by the clacking of Astoria’s heels.

Her eyes, though narrowed in either anger or grief, travel past me before she stops and smirks.

“I didn’t recognize you, Granger. I like your new look—very punk chic.” She sidles past me and out the doors as if it’s a completely natural occurrence for her to appear in the Magical Law offices and insult the employees.

My eyes downcast, I make my way back to my desk, the silencing spells instantly calming my nerves.

Hands jittering slightly, I rearrange a few items on my desk, making sure everything is parallel and perpendicular to each other. A few stacks of papers get tidied and I fix the rubber band around another roll parchment so that it lays completely smooth.

My fingers brush over my head and oddly enough, the stubble growing there has a texture that I find calming and have been running my hands over it lately without realizing when anxious.

“So you have silencing spells around your desk, hmm?” a familiar voice breaks my routine and I jolt up. Malfoy is standing behind one of the chairs opposite my desk, hand resting on its back in an ever-so-fashionable stance.

“Malfoy,” I utter for lack of a better response.

“I was calling to you but you were completely involved in…” he gestures towards my desk, “your organizing.”

I look away, embarrassed. “Sorry, if I’d have seen you, I would have acknowledged and gestured for you to come closer.”

Malfoy glances around the small area of my desk and asks, “May I sit?”

“Of course.” Why?

“I wonder, knowing you as I do, do the charms work in reverse? Nobody can hear anything inside your space just as you can’t hear anything from outside?” he questions.

I nod. “That’s right. I…mumble when I’m concentrating sometimes and I find it embarrassing. Plus, it makes meetings with people much easier. Most of the others just cast silencing spells only when they need to for privacy. It’s a waste of energy they say, otherwise.” My eyebrows furrow at the thought; my charms were still up when I came back after a month. Were they still draining me while I felt exhausted and powerless at home?

“What’s the matter?” Malfoy asks. He’s noticed my body language, not that it is too difficult a feat.

“Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head. “This isn’t a session. You don’t have to pretend to care.”

His eyes narrow. “First of all, I do care—it’s not an act. Second, fine. But I’ll mention it at our session tomorrow.”

Malfoy proceeds to lean back in his seat, completely relaxed and ungentlemanly, though still his leg crossed over the other effortlessly. It’s rather shocking, but he stares off into the distance in silence and I feel like he just needs to brood for a few moments. He has his own problems and apparently feels comfortable enough in my presence to relax.

I go back to the project I was working on before getting up before. After a while of my quill scratching against parchment and pages of books being flipped through, Malfoy stretches slightly and stands.

“I best be going. Thank you for letting me sit with you; I appreciate it. I know it’s not the most professional action, but I thank you nonetheless.”

“I don’t mind,” I say out of courtesy but it’s after he nods and turns away from me that I realize that was true. We had sat in relatively comfortable silence, the soft kind that I experience with Luna when we’ve run out of topics during the odd lunch or coffee date every few months. She is just a welcoming presence that doesn’t require talking, unlike Harry or Neville, who must always either have some sort of conversation going or be rambling about the newest discovered use for Mandrake root. And Ron and Ginny…neither of them can sit still for more than ten seconds.

I don’t want to consider what this means, whether Malfoy is becoming closer, like a friend of some sort, instead of just my Therapy Healer and old school tormentor, or if I’m just more comfortable around him than my actual friends.

The relationship is confusing and I rub my hands against my head again to regain some semblance of sanity before getting straight back to work.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing schedule is beyond sporadic at the moment, so I can't promise regular updates. I can only promise that I will see this story to the end because, hell, I want to see the end too!
> 
> Also, please remember that the breaks signify time skips, but the amount of time is becoming arbitrary as Hermione's timeline goes wonky. Basically, it doesn't honestly matter how much time has passed between sections of a chapter and separate chapters unless stated. Just wanted to clarify that so nobody gets confused.

Chapter Seven

“It passed through? Really?”

I just nod, mind going back to that blank place I’d been in with Harry just the other day. I don’t feel accomplished. Malfoy sees the distress and detachment, obviously.

He leans back in his chair and stares at me a moment. “Are you alright?”

I shake my head. I just…can’t get enough pressure through my lungs to make a sound. I feel like I’m… “I’m slipping again,” I whisper. My voice is so delicate I’m worried he doesn’t hear me.

“Slipping…”

My hands both feel twitchy enough to play with one of the pillows and also dead enough that I can barely move.

“I want to go back to bed. I’m done.”

Malfoy nods. “Okay…I see…” He takes a few breaths, putting his thoughts together. “I know that you’re feeling very empty right now, right?” I nod in response. “And you want nothing more than to go back how you were nearly two months ago.” He pauses so I nod again. “You’re not getting that absolute pleasure of showing up a bunch of crotchety old wizards and helping the less fortunate, which normally is one of your passions.”

“Yeah…And I hate it. Harry said I’m supposed to be happy.”

“Well, in my professional opinion, screw whatever Potter says you’re supposed to be like. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your head.” He says it dismissively, but the words themselves make just the smallest smile cross my lips.

“He’s right, though.”

“So? Yes, on a normal day when all the chemicals in your brain are lining up and you actually feel yourself, you would be happy. But today is not one of your best days.”

“This isn’t my best week.”

Malfoy cocks his head to the side. “You seemed just fine yesterday.”

I look to the side of the room, at a shelf of books too far to make out the titles of most. I don’t want to look at him right now. He has seen me at my worst and I have seen him at his worst (possibly). It feels wrong.

“It…I think it comes in…waves.”

Malfoy nods. “Can you—can you describe how it feels? The waves, how they affect you, if they have any triggers you’ve identified.”

“No triggers, just…existing.” I want to laugh, but there’s no laughter left inside me. “It’s like, I can be perfectly fine one moment—well, not fine, but going about routines like normal…And then suddenly I realize I’m a waste of space and nothing I do matters and there’s no point in doing anything and then I just…I collapse in on myself, it feels like.”

Malfoy is staring me straight in the eye. It keeps me going.

“And when I think about everything that I’ve accomplished, it’s like throwing a seed into the ocean. It could have grown somewhere else, but it’s useless and I’m just a vast…nothing. And then a few hours later, after I’ve sat at my desk or my kitchen table or in the shower for Merlin knows how long, I can look up and just…see people moving or feel the cold water on my back and it’s like it wakes me up, but I’ve already been awake. I don’t know…I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize. That was very informative. Thank you for sharing so much.”

We sit in silence, during which I reflect that just a short time ago, I thought therapy was stupid, a waste of time. And now here I am, able to pull away all the thoughts crowding my head, or grasp the only ones currently traveling through my synapses, and put them to words. I can…describe my own feelings. Me, the logical one of the Golden Trio.

Me, Hermione Granger, the fuck up.

I can’t help it; I start to tear up. Malfoy notices immediately and leans close again, grabbing the tissue box off his desk and ready to hand one over to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, though I know it just makes it worse. I want to apologize for continuing to apologize. I keep messing up. He told me I don’t need to apologize.

The tears come faster and heavier now, and I can feel them leave tracks down my cheeks. Malfoy finally hands me the tissue box completely when he sees the snot leaving my nose. I’m ugly-crying and I don’t even care anymore. I don’t care that I’m crying in front of Malfoy. And it feels so…relieving.

I blow my nose and continue to sob out so many feelings that have been just bottling up without me even knowing.

“That’s it,” I can hear him saying. “Let it all out. Let it go…release…”

His hand grips at one of mine, a soothing thumb stroking at my skin. I hunch forward, wanting to curl into a ball and never leave. I want to go home. I want to get into bed and never leave the warm comfort and safety.

The blanket on the back of the couch comes to rest around my shoulders and I hold onto the ends for dear life, as if they will save me from whatever is going through me.

My sobs break through my chest as if bruising my ribs. I’ll be empty of fluids by the time I’m done crying. I’ll be a husk, a nothing. A physical representation of how I already feel.

Malfoy continues his comforting words. He doesn’t say that everything is going to be okay, or that there’s nothing to cry about. He’s telling me that it’s okay to cry, that my emotions, for once in my life, are completely valid.

* * *

 

In the deserted comfort of the Magical Law women’s restroom, I heave a great sigh. Just one more day, Hermione, and then it’s the weekend and you can hole yourself up in your flat all you want.

I do my breathing exercises and think about my safe place, a new addition Malfoy gave me after my breakdown last session.

The library at Hogwarts, each shelf fully mapped in my head from walking down them innumerable times during my years as a student. Each book my friend and helper, a piece of me in every page and scroll, every stretch of leather, every wooden seat and table. A knowing and friendly nod from Madam Pince, waves from my fellow lurkers who’d known me for years.

This is my safe place. The library was where I went whenever I didn’t know the answer or couldn’t figure something out back at Hogwarts. It was my go-to place when upset, after the girl’s bathroom traumatized me too much. And it is where I traverse now in my head.

“Find someplace where you’re most relaxed, somewhere you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. It doesn’t have to be real, or a place you can visit regularly in the waking world,” Malfoy had said.

“Where’s your safe place?” I’d ventured to ask after struggling for a few minutes in coming up with my own that didn’t bring back any negative memories as well.

A flash of white-blond hair catches my eye in my library in my head. That’s right, Malfoy would frequent the shelves as well during our school days. He wasn’t second in our class for nothing, after all. I remember avoiding him often, but never needing to try too hard at that.

Malfoy had smirked at my question. “If I told you, how would it stay a sacred safe place, hmm?” His usual cockiness had come back full-powered. I’d narrowed my eyes, but said nothing.

I take one more deep breath, my heartbeat a nice, low beat and my mind clear enough to get back to work.

As I step out of the restroom, I pass by one of my coworkers, who smiles and waves, but otherwise says nothing. I return the gesture and continue on my way towards my desk.

I can’t wait until lunchtime, when everybody leaves the office and I feel more at peace to do my work, without the thought of somebody glancing over, watching me, judging me.

A paper bird flies to me and lands on my desk softly, unfolding enough so I may hear the receptionist’s voice. “You have a visitor, Ms. Granger. Shall I send him over?”

I groan, but reply the affirmative and send the bird on its way again. A few minutes later, a short, yet somehow gangly man stands in front of me. His hair is combed neatly, but contrasts with his ragged and faded clothes. His cloak has definitely seen better days, possibly a century ago.

I stand and stick out my hand to shake. “Hermione Granger. What may I do for you?”

My heartbeat is rising steadily to the point that I can feel it against my ribs.

“Hayward Gruff,” the man replies. “May I sit?” He gestures towards the chairs beside him.

“Of course, yes of course. Mr. Gruff, your name sounds familiar…”

He nods slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. He seems nearly as nervous as I am. “I tried meeting with you when you were on sick leave. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you so much. I do feel much better.” My memory clicks. “Oh, you’re…affected by my latest bill,” I exclaim, correcting myself before I call him a werewolf, in case that’s not completely true or it’s insulting.

Again, he nods in earnest. “My sister and I, we’re both werewolves. And, before, I wanted to discuss the terms your bill would be agreed upon. Now that it’s been passed and the decrees will be taking effect soon, we wanted to thank you. I have been hopping from one job to the next for almost a decade now, unable to support both of us. My sister is afraid of going near people because of…” He gestures to himself. I nod.

“But now that I can get a steady job without being discriminated against, we can finally find a decent place to live and maybe even Wolfsbane Potion eventually.” Hayward smiles wistfully into the distance.

I grin back and explain, “One of my next endeavors is actually to find an affordable way to prepare Wolfsbane Potion for werewolves to receive every month.” I don’t mention how many problems arise with such a feat. Not just the anonymity of the werewolves would be compromised, but also the safety that the current bill and new laws will put into place soon. And, of course, how expensive the ingredients are to make the potion in the first place makes it near impossible.

I just want everybody to be safe and equal. Why is it so hard?

His eyes brighten immensely and he reaches forward to grasp my hand again between both of his. I can feel the callouses scratch against my skin, but try not to wince.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” He continues to express his gratitude while I walk him out of the office and to the elevator. Before the elevator arrives, he exclaims, “Oh, before I forget!” and reaches deep into a coat pocket.

His outstretched hand holds a small bar of chocolate. It’s a generic brand, something cheap but still chocolate nonetheless. “From both of us, but really as a token of my sister’s gratitude. Chocolate makes everything better, right?”

The broken smile on Hayward’s scarred face reminds me too much of Professor Lupin’s. I take the chocolate apprehensively. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to. Your happiness is reward enough.”

“A very kind man who stayed with us before the Second War broke out made sure we always had a supply of chocolate. And now, we just wish to do the same for everybody else who extends a welcoming hand.”

My mind races to Lupin again. I can’t help but ask, “Was it by any chance a Remus who stayed with you?” He’d been living with wolf packs to make sure they didn’t join Voldemort’s side before and during the war. If he’d stayed with these two, then this was just another connection to somebody dear that I have lost. And I don’t know how to feel about that.

“Remus Lupin, yeah. You know him?” he asks excitedly. Anybody who Lupin befriended would love to see him again, such a kind soul as his.

A sad smile crosses my face. “Yes, he was a dear friend of mine and one of the biggest inspirations for working so closely with those like yourself.” The elevator door dings open. “Thank you again for visiting, and I hope all goes well with your job now.”

Hayward doesn’t catch my past tense, and for that I am beyond grateful. He waves goodbye and departs. I can’t tell if it’s relief or guilt that slides through my veins.

“Hermione!” I hear from the side. Harry is speed-walking towards me, Ron trailing behind. He hugs me close to his chest as soon as he is in range. “What are you doing out and about?”

“Just…seeing off an old friend of Lupin’s,” I reply, gesturing to the elevator.

Both men’s eyes widen slightly. They know how difficult it is to talk about any non-human beings out in public with prejudices still so strong. It’s amazing that I, a Muggle-born, can get so high up in the Ministry at times.

“Because your bill passed?” Ron speaks up. Harry and I both stare at him in shock. It’s the most he’s said to me in a year. And it isn’t even passive-aggressive.

I nod. “Yes, he came to thank me.” I look down at the chocolate bar still in my hand. The kind gesture pokes at my heart again and I can feel myself tear up. Not now, please. Ron’s right here.

Harry follows my gaze and a grimace appears on his face. What is he thinking?

“Would…” Ron starts before clearing his throat. “Would you like to…share it? As a toast to Lupin?”

I can’t help the tear that leaks from my eye. Why is he suddenly being so kind? It hurts more than I thought it would, but it the good way that means that our relationship can maybe be salvaged.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea…Ron.”

Harry leads the three of us to his office down the hall. The Auror Office, as always, is a cacophony of witches and wizards, messenger planes and whatever flying object they can make out of paper quickly, magic detecting devices, and radios crying out. Luckily, Harry has his own office behind a heavy door.

I know Ron is not so lucky and instead must work in a cubical similar to mine. At least he’s used to insanity around him, what with how many siblings he grew up with.

Harry, for some reason that escapes me, often leaves his office door open unless I’m with him. IT has something to do with how wild and loud Aurors are normally I guess.

This time, like every time before, Harry closes the door behind me. He fishes out a plate from a cabinet behind his desk—where I spy a few Butterbeer bottles and a decanter that must have Fire Whiskey inside. I’ll mention my disapproval later.

The plate, though china, is old and has a chip missing from the edge. Its designs are worn and faded, with a few scratches from sharp cutlery marring its surface. I can’t help but slide my fingers over it. It reminds me of Harry and Lupin together. And every other person who was affected by either of the Wizarding Wars.

I finally hand over my chocolate bar and Ron takes it from me. He carefully unwraps it—something I’ve rarely seen him do around food or any sort of packaged good for that matter—and then breaks it into thirds onto the plate.

We stand over the chocolate sitting on Harry’s desk a moment, silently watching. Of course, nothing happens. But it feels wrong to immediately dig in.

Finally, Harry reaches towards the piece closest to him. “To Lupin,” he proclaims.

“To Hermione,” Ron adds as he takes his own piece and hoists it up.

I bite my lip and take my chocolate. “To those oppressed everywhere.” What else am I supposed to say? “To Lupin,” I add.

“To Lupin,” Ron mutters, his voice braking slightly. Neither Harry nor I mention it.

We dig into our chocolate and, just as Professor Lupin always said, chocolate makes everything feel better.

* * *

 

A tap on my desk startles me. To be more precise, it’s a tap against the small china dish I have off to the side of my desk.

I look up to see a confused Malfoy staring at me. “I wouldn’t take you for somebody to leave dirty dishes around…at work,” he amends at the last second, remembering how I’ve left my flat recently. (It’s clean now, I swear.)

 I shake my head. “I’m not just leaving it around. It holds a lot of memories.” I grab it and hold it close to my chest, my fingers finding the small chip on the rim and tracing over some of the carved lines from meals past.

Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together, but he says nothing. His hands glide around the edge of my desk as he stays deep in thought.

“Would you mind terribly if I rested here again after my upcoming meeting about the divorce? I don’t mean to bother you—”

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” I interrupt. We’re not in his office. We’re in mine. I’m in charge now and it feels wonderful, oh so wonderful, to interrupt Malfoy in my own domain.

He smirks in response and walks away, towards the back desk where he and Astoria must be meeting again.

An hour and a half later, I glance up when a movement catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. Astoria stomps past my desk, face set to kill and boots outright devilish in their gait. She obviously is not happy.

I wait for about ten minutes before Malfoy appears at my desk, only to immediately slump into one of my chairs. He groans and sets his head into his palms.

I don’t say anything, but immediately go back to my book. I was having a hard time concentrating on work a little while ago, and thought it was alright to take a break and read. This is also one from Narcissa Malfoy’s collection—a young witch following a path through the stars to discover the origin of magic (completely ignoring the need for oxygen of course, as well as all other Muggle science physics, but I’m working at ignoring all that for the sake of fantasy).

“Do you really think magic came from another world?” Malfoy suddenly asks. He’s staring not at me but at the book, its back visible so he may read the summary.

The question stuns me for a moment before I answer, “No. It’s logically something to do with evolution, with two common ancestors—one of normal animals and Muggles, and one of magical creatures and Wizards. They could possibly even have both evolved from the same ancestor far enough back. Or humans split quite recently, similar to the difference between _homo sapiens_ and Neanderthals.” I shrug. This wasn’t a question I normally thought about, despite my above-average knowledge of evolution and history.

Malfoy nods. “But there are evolutionary theories that say that what began on Earth as DNA had to have come from somewhere more advanced, that it’s too detailed a mutation to naturally occur. Wouldn’t magic fall into a similar category?”

A smirk graces my face. “While that is still a theory that some may believe, there is absolutely no proof, not until we find evidence of carbon-based life forms or DNA when visiting other planets. So far, the Mars Rovers have found nothing substantial.”

“Wait, Mars _Rovers_?” Malfoy suddenly perks up. “Actual Muggle contraptions ‘roving’ Mars?”

I’m silent a moment, waiting for him to admit to tricking me. Malfoy understands the chemicals in a human brain, understands evolution and biology, but doesn’t know that there are currently two Muggle rovers on Mars thanks the United States?

“Granger, I’m serious. I don’t pay attention to Muggle news, and don’t give a damn about space. We’re still trying to understand everything here on Earth, with our own bodies for Merlin’s sake. Of course I wouldn’t know about these kinds of things.” He’s offended that I assumed he was actually smart. My bad.

 I spend the next half hour educating him on current Muggle scientific endeavors that have nothing to do with biology and psychology. I haven’t been keeping myself up-to-date well recently, which upsets me. When I’m lecturing, I like knowing everything there is.

With is fingers steepled, elbows resting on the edge of my desk, Malfoy stares at me a while longer after I conclude. “I had no idea…”

“Which part?” I ask haughtily.

 “Well, years ago, I truly had no clue that Muggles are advanced as they are. They surely surpass Wizards with their technology, which is why I’m quite alright with stealing and advancing my own field. But everything else…When I was in Uni, I didn’t socialize often, and only took the classes that either were a part of my major or that truly interested me. A part of me wishes that I had taken Muggle education more seriously.”

“You know, I wouldn’t take you for a non-socialite at Uni,” I muse.

Malfoy scoffs. “Granger, they were Muggles. I’m a—I’m a Wizard.” Did he catch himself about to mention his blood status? “I didn’t want to socialize with them after already letting them _teach_ me in a classroom setting. Besides, there were very few that caught my eye.”

“Aww, because you weren’t introduced at the country club as infants, you didn’t have any friends, did you?”

“What? No! Of course I had friends. I was just very selective, and that comes with a price. Anyway, if my father found out…if he found out about the friendships, he would have had my head. He was paying for my education, not my fraternizing with lowly non-magical beings.” He shakes his head slowly, wistfully. “There are so many times in my life that I’ve looked back on and wished that I’d told my dad to stuff it and did what I wanted to do.”

I stay silent a moment. What a thing to say…especially to me. “Well,” I begin. “You are doing what you want now, aren’t you?”

He lets a smirk creep up his face. “More or less.” He doesn’t continue, and I feel as if that’s as far as he’s willing to share with me. Family is such a touchy subject with him. Well, with me as well, but that’s a whole other dimension from his problems.

A paper bird whisks past Malfoy’s ear, startling him, and lands on my desk in front of me. I pinch it so it doesn’t immediately speak.

“I see you need to get back to work.” Malfoy stands, straightens out his cloak, and smiles down at me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I watch as he leaves the Law office, almost wishing that I’d walked him out like I did with Hayward Gruff from earlier.

I can’t completely fathom what just transpired between us, but…I appreciate it nonetheless. I have a new friend. Somebody I can actually discuss the Muggle world and science with. And yet, he knows too much about me and the only personal detail I know about him that anybody else doesn’t is the divorce. I mean, he would have to trust me to let me have that information, but that’s it. That, and his father limiting his world.

Maybe he is just opening up little by little. All I know is that this relationship is far from a normal doctor/patient relationship. Not that it was ever that simple even from the start.

My fingers absently trace over the faded designs on the plate lying on my desk. I let out a sigh, though I don’t know particularly why. What I do know is that I need to restock my desk chocolate supply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the blossoming relationship between Hermione and Draco, as well as the recovering friendship between her and Ron. She'll be repairing her friendship with Ginny in the near future, don't worry.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please take the time to leave comments, kudos, subscribe, etc.


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